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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917298">On a Need-To-Know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailmeamail/pseuds/snailmeamail'>snailmeamail</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Half-Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>ADD Gordon Freeman, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, American Sign Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mentions of Cancer, Mind Manipulation, Mute Gordon Freeman, Personality Swap, Power Swap, Role Reversal, Selectively Mute Gordon Freeman, Sign Language, Slow Burn, more tags will be added as we go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:20:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailmeamail/pseuds/snailmeamail</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Michael [REDACTED], a government agent who's main job is to cover up the numerous lawsuits and OSHA violations charged against Black Mesa. After a severe brush with cancer as a result of his former employment with Aperture Science, he's hoping Black Mesa will be a walk in the park. He'll soon learn, however, that nothing is a walk in the park when it comes to Black Mesa versus the law.</p>
<p>Security Chief Calhoun, head of security at Black Mesa. He's rarely seen by anyone, much less the security team. He's considered by many to be the Administrator's right hand man--or his lapdog, to those who hate him. No one is sure of when he turned up; they've just assumed that he's always been at the job and they haven't noticed. He mans the surveillance room. If any kind of danger presented itself, Calhoun would be on the job in a heartbeat. Don't be fooled by those sleepy eyes--he's always watching.</p>
<p>And Gordon Freeman, an MIT graduate who often finds himself working as a heavy lifter for the science team. </p>
<p>Three individuals--caught in one resonance cascade that will change them forever.</p>
<p>--<br/>A Barney/Gman Swap AU. This AU has a sideblog! Chapters posted on Saturdays and on Tumblr.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman, Isaac Kleiner &amp; Eli Vance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>278</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: [REDACTED]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this au has a sideblog: <a href="url">https://security-chief-calhoun.tumblr.com/</a><br/>where i post questions asked to the characters, post WIPS, and do fanart! please pop by sometime or drop an ask!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bureaucracy is Agent Michael’s specialty, as it has been for fifteen years. He’s had to fight tooth and nail to get to where he is now--through the education and use of multiple languages and regional dialects, and through shaking hands with less than savory but powerful characters--he’s fought his whole life to get power. With power, comes money. Security, stability; including (but not limited to) finance, the one thing that makes the world go round.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know if this is the way to attain it. This is something no government in the world can offer him--and it’s being offered on a silver platter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The government man looks at the portal. It’s something straight out of a conspiracy nut’s blog. If this information got out, every theorist would be speeding their jeeps into New Mexico within the day. Thankfully, it’s his job to make sure it’s kept on the down low.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The portal flares and crackles with electricity; its light is so bright he looks away. He looks back to the administrator, who smiles, his hands clasped politely behind his back, as if they aren’t both witnessing a marvel of science. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Beautiful, is it not?” He says over the loud, mechanical hum that echoes throughout the chamber. The government grimaces. “There is nothing to worry about. We’ve sent a multitude of test subjects before you--about half of them came back whole!” Michael starts to question it, but the administrator adds hastily, “The other half sustained minor injuries. As long as your HEV suit is intact, you’ll be safe from any sort of danger. The moment you get the crystal, we’ll bring you back home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His message is loud and clear. Get the crystal, or you won’t come back. Black Mesa can’t afford any failures, not when they’re this close to a breakthrough. Michael doesn’t intend to fail. He gives the HEV suit a once over; it’s a shiny chrome and cherry red, and underneath he wears a scratchy black undersuit. He had never been fond of the color red, but he has to admit it looks good on him. “Who is accompanying...me on this ven-ture?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Agent Michael, I’d like you to meet our chief of security.” The administrator steps aside and gestures to the doorway. A man in an ocean blue HEV suit comes walking towards them. The administrator claps the man on the back, wincing as he wrings his hand out. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. Remember: science is counting on you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had never met the chief prior. He had heard of him, of course, but only in passing. He hadn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>him around in the facility before, as if he just popped into existence now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two men watch the administrator leave. When the chamber door slides shut, the chief of security looks at him. Michael raises his brows. It must be his eyes deceiving him, or the portal’s green strands fluctuating and throwing themselves across the chief’s face--but he can swear up and down that the chief of security’s eyes are a shockingly bright shade of </span>
  <em>
    <span>turquoise</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They carry heavy eyebags, no doubt a result from late shifts. He looks sleepy even now. The Cheshire Cat would be envious of his lazy grin. Salt and pepper hair; just how long has he been working here? Scars, two; across his left cheek and a small nick on the forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He extends a hand. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you, Mr. *******.” The name turns the blood in Michael’s veins cold. He might as well have slapped Michael. Hearing his last name is a rarity; in fact, not even the administrator has that knowledge. Even the greatest minds of the US government don’t. The agent doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let his mouth hang agape like a brainless primate--he swallows his shock. It’s replaced with irritation, or at least, a hastily shoveled on layer of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s private information.” Michael eyes the extended hand, then makes to shake it. The chief’s grip is hardy. “You’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>authorised </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know that, mister...?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not to me, Michael,” the chief chuckles. He speaks slowly, like he’s feeling out every syllable, not bothering to mask his southern accent. “On a need-to-know basis right? I’m the kinda guy who has to know; I’m plenty authorised. I run the show ‘round these parts. Mr. Calhoun, Agent Michael, at your service. You can call me Calhoun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your first name?” Michael persists, “If we are to work together, I believe it’s only polite if we know each other’s names.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s on a need-to-know basis.” Michael scoffs. Calhoun shrugs, then turns to the portal. “As of now...you just don’t need to know. Calhoun’s just fine by me. Don’t worry--I won’t tell a soul.” That smug smile on his face curdles whatever first impression Michael had had of him. He presses his lips into a thin line. He’s had experience with arrogant bastards--Calhoun isn’t special, as much as he seems to think he is. He’s just another lapdog.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Dr. Bradley says over the intercom, “The portal is fluctuating quite wildly--the levels I’m reading are off the charts, reacting to...well, something</span>
  <em>
    <span> big</span>
  </em>
  <span>--but if you go now, you should be able to squeeze into the correct time frame...” He continues on, but Michael tunes it out. He stares at the side of Calhoun’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe Breen instructed you on what we’re about to acquire,” Michael speaks over the hum of the machine, “Are you ready, Calhoun?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man tips his head, and meets the agent’s gaze. He cocks a brow, as if Michael has just asked the silliest question he’s ever heard. “Sure thing. I don’t need the administrator to tell me what I already know, Michael.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What you already--?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calhoun rolls his eyes, an action so immature it immediately shuts Michael up. The man crosses the bridge and stands at the lip. Michael follows with haste. It’s Xen or bust, Michael,” Calhoun says. He looks at the portal with a strange detachment, like his eyes have glossed over it. He puts his helmet on, sealing it with a hiss. “See ya on the other side.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps into the portal and disappears. Michael puts his helmet on, lets out a small, shaky breath through the rebreather, and follows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sensation of teleportation is like his skin is being rubbed raw, like he’s inhaling smoke and tasting it on his tongue--he hadn’t been used to it during training, and he still isn’t now. He squeezes his eyes shut. Nausea comes easy to him. He falls an impossibly long distance; backwards or forwards it doesn’t matter. Air rushes past him, and it carries with it an acrid, inhuman smell. He expects it all to stop, to vanish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In that spiral of nausea, he begins to feel...things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sensations; fleeting. Pain along his neck, in his side, in his head. A thump against his back as he hits the ground. His ears ring. Everything smells of smoke and fire. Something must’ve gone wrong, he reasons sluggishly, something with the machine. An explosion. Miscalculations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears things, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alone...you are...alone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You listened to it. Despite everythin’ I’ve told you, you listened to </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not me.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He will...deceive you...deceive you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“At least I know what </span>
  </em>
  <span>it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>His own voice, he realizes, though his mouth doesn't move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you, now. Lemme tell ya somethin’, Michael. Who I am, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am, is on a need- to-know basis. As I’ve said before...you don’t need to know.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The truth...you can never know...the truth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blue eyes. Yellow crystal. Both aglow. Dark caves that never end. The specimen. Only the specimen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The truth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Green creatures. Blue electricity. Blood on the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They were in our way. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The truth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hand on his shoulder. Hand on his neck. Hard to breathe, to think. Where is he? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What are you doing to me? Get off--”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You know too much, Michael. I didn’t want to have to do this.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Empty. Quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>You can never know the truth.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Michael? Agent Michael, are you alright?” says a voice somewhere above him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s losin’ a lotta blood, sir, I better get him down to the medbay.” Another voice responds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened in there, Calhoun? What did you see?” Two blurry faces swim in and out of his vision. Both look down at him with foggy eyes. “Who...</span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>did this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael splutters. His whole mouth tastes of copper. Something warm trickles down his lip. The bright fluorescent lights are digging into his eyeballs. He closes his eyes; he just wants to rest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In there. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Where? Where had they been? The last thing Michael remembers is stepping into the portal. Everything after is a blank. A white, empty space. The emptiness alarms him--how much time has gone by? He doesn't remember. There is nothing. <em>Nothing.</em> He looks up, grabbing one of the hands near him, staining it with red. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“W-What,” he croaks, “happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The face of the person he grabbed comes into focus. Blue, blue eyes, and two scars--Calhoun smiles. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Michael. Everythin’ will be just fine. Just listen to me...and you’ll be right as rain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I d-don’t remember,” he whispers, “I don’t r-remember what happened. T-The machine, it--” The mounting terror brings his pain into sharper focus. He hisses. It’s like Michael has climbed a staircase, and put his foot where there isn’t a step. That one moment in time, plunging into terror, as you think of all the worst things that could happen. You could fall--you could </span>
  <em>
    <span>break.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothin’ to remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going to tell him?” Breen murmurs to the man beside him quietly. They sit outside the medbay, having been ushered away. “What happened, I mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s on a need-to-know.” Calhoun responds, picking at his shirt. He had changed out of the HEV suit. He looks at Breen, straight in the eyes. The administrator has never gotten used to how bright his eyes are. How unnatural. “Do <em>you</em> think he needs to know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breen looks at the sealed double doors to the medbay. Tiny drops of Michael’s blood lead a trail straight to him. When Breen had seen the extensive damage done to Michael’s HEV suit--well, he had been horrified. The metal area of the abdomen had been torn open in its side. Several armor plates had been ripped off. The helmet’s glass had been cracked. Only a large creature could’ve done such damage. Something with claws, or a jaw set with a hundred teeth. Nothing they have down in the labs has done the same to the test dummies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small part of him says Calhoun did it. The notion is dismissed immediately, however, because Calhoun would never do such damage--he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>do such damage. The most they supplied the team had been two pistols, nothing more. Whoever or <em>whatever</em> had hurt Michael hadn’t been human. And Calhoun is plenty human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both the doctors and Calhoun have said that Michael had a nasty concussion. One so bad he doesn’t remember a single thing from the incursion in Xen. Or Xen at all. In fact, the agent is convinced something had gone wrong with the machine before they could get to Xen. Perhaps it’s better that way. Calhoun is one thing; he’s Breen’s right hand man. The administrator knows the chief would never tell anyone anything of what they had done. But Michael? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a government agent, a bureaucrat who drifts from company to company, Michael is a loose cannon. If he still has ties to Aperture, which Breen is almost definitely sure of, then it would be for the best that he had forgotten. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Breen cedes, “He doesn’t. Bring the sample to Anomalous Materials--we’ll run it through the spectrometer next week. You two did well.” He gives Calhoun a curt nod. Calhoun returns it with a hum.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure thing, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In Anomalous Materials, a computer in the main console room flicks on. This is the console used to monitor certain assignments. It flicks through the various project names, until it gets to the crystal’s newly inputted codename. In it, names are assigned to different tasks of the procedure. Some grunt is supposed to push the crystal into the spectrometer. The console selects this item box, and types a name:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Freeman, Gordon.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The console hits enter, confirming the choice with a soft ping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An alert will be sent out to one Dr. Gordon Freeman that he is to be assigned to this procedure. He is one of many of the science team members who had heard about the test firsthand, but now he has the opportunity to bear witness. That MIT education pays for itself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The console shuts off, shrouding the room in darkness once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three levels above Anomalous Materials, two down from the Administrator’s office and the surface,  Security chief Calhoun walks along a catwalk reserved for maintenance. In one hand, he swings a ring of keys. In the other, he grips a key that is labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>AM Console. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hums to himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll visit Michael in the ward. Surely the agent will be happy to see him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll be very happy to see him.</span>
</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>[SUBJECT: MICHAEL]</p>
<p>[STATUS: UNDER OBSERVATION]</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Transit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A relaxing tram ride, a possible recurrence, and one lone cup of coffee before things start to get <i> weird. </i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this au has a sideblog: <a href="url">https://security-chief-calhoun.tumblr.com/</a><br/>where i post questions asked to the characters, WIPS, and fanart! please pop by sometime or drop an ask!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>SUBJECT:</strong> Gordon Freeman<br/><strong>AGE: </strong>27<br/><strong>EDUCATION</strong>: MIT degree in Theoretical Physics<br/><strong>DATE: </strong>May 16, 8:47am<br/><strong>STATUS</strong>: In transit<br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <span>Gordon Freeman is late to work by forty-seven minutes. He grabs a lone styrofoam cup of coffee on his way out and barrels into the tram. The soft voice of the Black Mesa Announcement System tells him the time, weather conditions, and various hazards around the facility as the tram descends into Black Mesa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down, groaning. No use pacing around. This is the fifth time this week he’s been late; on a morning like this, he really shouldn’t have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today’s the big day. Anomalous Materials will clear their reputation and he’ll finally be appreciated as someone with a MIT education, rather than a man capable of menial labor...even if the latter had been the task assigned to him, as per the email about the procedure that had been sent out. It’s a sore point. He has a degree in theoretical physics, not picking up coffee for everyone in the lab, or pushing a crystal into a beam. Still, it’s better than nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon watches as a Loader traipses through a lake of green sludge, carrying cargo boxes high above the toxic waste. He shakes his head. Honestly, what a mess. He can’t wait to tell Dr. Kleiner about this. Aperture Science, Inc. is--and he will never admit this to his colleagues or peers, even Dr. Kleiner and Dr. Vance--looking better and better by the day. At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t have radioactive waste mere feet below the tram line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another thing Aperture Science has over them--their robots </span>
  <em>
    <span>function </span>
  </em>
  <span>properly</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The tram comes to a halt as a Loader, staggeringly slow, crosses with its cargo. Gordon looks up from his coffee when the tram door opens. A tall, pale looking man in a blue suit, carrying a briefcase in one leather gloved hand and adjusting his tie with the other, comes in and sits opposite him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Freeman,” he says, in a low, foreign voice. “in the flesh. You’re, quite late; they needed you down in Anomalous Materials. Fifty minutes ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon relaxes. He hasn’t seen the man in quite a while; his presence is still a little unnerving, despite having known him for two years. However, even if he does work for the government, he is the most non-threatening, amiable person in all of Black Mesa. His presence raises Gordon’s spirits. If you didn’t know the agent, you could say he was off-putting, what with his gaunt, skull like complexion and strange accent. He’s a nice guy to have lunch with, once you get to know him. He’s always being dragged into the administrator’s office, so Gordon has no doubt that’s where he’s going now. Gordon waves with his free hand. The man hums, amused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Loader finally passes, and they continue on. He leans back and puts his briefcase on his lap. His hands rest atop it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you feeling better, Michael? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gordon signs. Michael had been out of work for nearly a week; a cold, or something or another. The agent smiles, and Gordon takes note of the bags under his eyes that deepen with the action. “Oh, I am just fine,” he says, “Nothing the medical staff couldn’t help...me with. They did say rest was, important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scientist nods. That’s good to hear. “Today’s the big day, Dr. Freeman,” Michael continues with a thoughtful smile, “It’s quite fortunate we found the specimen in time. Materials like that are not...easy to come by.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon shrugs. “Are you nervous?” He holds his hands out, forefingers pointing downwards, and jiggles his right like he’s swatting a fly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very nervous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He points to the man. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I have no reason to be anxious,” he chuckles, “I have utmost faith in this experiment. It’s going to be a red letter day, I tell you. Aperture Science and that brute Cave Johnson won’t know what hit them. This, crystal could power any number of machines...rendering electricity useless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the transit is spent in silence, with Gordon nursing his dwindling supply of coffee, and the government agent sitting ever so still, holding his briefcase close. The tram stops again at a platform, for passengers who will transfer to the next line. The agent stands, brushes his fine pant legs off, and goes for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is where I get off,” he says, “Good luck, Dr. Freeman.” Gordon signs </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the agent leaves. The doors slide shut, and Gordon is now an hour late to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><strong>SUBJECT: </strong>Michael [REDACTED]<br/><span><strong>AGE:</strong> 49<br/></span><span><strong>EDUCATION:</strong> [REDACTED]<br/></span><span><strong>DATE:</strong> May 16, 9:05am<br/></span><span><strong>AFFLIATION</strong>: United States Government, Black Mesa Research Facility<br/></span><span><strong>STATUS:</strong> In transit</span></p><p>
  <span>Government Agent Michael [LAST NAME REDACTED; ON A NEED-TO-KNOW BASIS] would consider today, under any other circumstances, a good day for the advancement of science as the human race knew it. Had he not been traipsing into the administrator’s office for the twelfth time this month, it would’ve been a very good day indeed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, well. At least he had shared a ride with Gordon. He had quite missed the man and their silent conversations; recovery in the medbay had been a lonely endeavour. He ha</span>
  <span>d had one visitor--but he’d rather not remember </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He takes great care to choose what he remembers now, but he knows he’s just practicing a delusional sense of free will.</span>
</p><p><span>He greets the guard at his post as he passes and goes down a long hallway with humming fluorescent lights overhead. They buzz, buzz, buzz--following behind him like a swarm of bees. He shivers as goosebumps rise across his skin. Why is that sound so familiar?</span> <span>Aperture never had these annoying fixtures; he would think that if the administrator truly wanted to prove Black Mesa is the top dog in this arms race, he’d pull enough money together to make the damn place inhabitable--or OSHA friendly, ideally.</span></p><p>
  <span>Daily OSHA violations is the only race Black Mesa is winning, unfortunately. It’s Michael’s job to play referee and cover up the</span>
  <em>
    <span> “</span>
  </em>
  <span>acceptable” casualties, of which many have transpired at his time here in the facility. At his suggestion, the administrator had finally installed handrails on the tram platforms all of two months ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two oak doors at the very end of the hallway had been the nicest things in Black Mesa, when he had first been assigned. Now, it’s just that: doors. At least the gold plaque on them that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Administrator Wallace Breen </span>
  </em>
  <span>is still shiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael raps his knuckles against the door twice. He waits. He checks his watch, adjusts his tie, and clears his throat. He hears shuffling feet from behind the door and it opens to reveal Wallace Breen, wearing his usual get up of a black turtleneck and brown slacks and suit jacket. He’s getting on in years; his hair is starting to look more white than brown. Michael knows the feeling all too well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michael,” the administrator greets him, stepping aside. “come in, come in.” The agent complies and Breen shuts the door behind him. The administrator goes behind his oak desk and sits, and gestures for Michael to do the same opposite him. Again, he does, because he’d rather have this over quick. He holds his briefcase on his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, today’s the day,” Breen starts with a grin, “Today’s the day we finally make use of Anomalous Materials. It was fortunate that you were able to find such a pure specimen, Michael. With this step forward, science--no, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world--</span>
  </em>
  <span>will never be the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed,” Michael agrees, “I cannot take all the c-credit--” He wheezes and coughs into his fist--damn allergies--”for the discovery of, the specimen. Your chief of security...well, I imagine </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wallace leans back in his chair, with that stupid, egotistical smile on his face. It’s the same exact one as the one he’s wearing in the portrait behind his chair. “What was it like?” Michael looks at the security camera in the far right corner of the office, just above the bookshelf, its red light pulsing slowly. He swings his gaze back around to Wallace. The camera is taunting him--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Breen </span>
  </em>
  <span>is taunting him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Michael doesn’t remember. How can he? What is there to remember? Ever since Michael’s discharge, Breen has been convinced he does remember, and that his “concussion” had given him momentary memory loss. That isn’t the case, and it won’t be, no matter how many incessant questions Breen pesters him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think it wise, to discuss it so...” He splays his hands out and tries to keep the venom out of his words. “...freely. There are eyes, and ears, everywhere, Wallace.” Pretending to know what had happened and passing it off as a matter of confidential information is a weak defense but it’s the only bullet in his chamber. If that’s the story Breen wants, that’s what Michael will feed him </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>the security team.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a reason Mr. Calhoun is chief of security.” Breen, thankfully, drops it and shrugs. At the mention of the chief’s name, goosebumps once again rise on Michael’s skin. He rubs his arm with a grimace. “I dreamed of going there myself--to get a glean of the euphoria Armstrong must’ve felt--but as the administrator, I considered it vital to remain here. It’s why we have expendable assets, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what Mr. Calhoun...and I are to you?” Michael chooses his next words very carefully. He is not at all surprised by such words, but more disgusted, even if he doesn’t recall such things personally. “We could have died there--expendable. In all my years of operation, I have not been called</span>
  <em>
    <span> expendable</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has the upper hand on Breen; he has a suitcase--no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>suitcases--filled with damning evidence of Black Mesa’s frequent human rights violations. “I meant no such offense, Michael.” Breen dares to look hurt. “You and Mr. Calhoun are valued members of Black Mesa faculty. You know who I’m talking about--the grunts in the HEV suits. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>what happened to them over there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hates it when people put words into his mouth. Michael stays silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t testify for Calhoun, but Michael needs no convincing of his value; his badge declaring his status as a United States government agent is proof enough. Just as he opens his mouth to say as much, a cough racks his chest, multiplying into a bout that leaves him fumbling for the handkerchief in his pocket. He presses it against his dry lips. The bout </span>
  <span>lasts for about a minute, but it’s agony. When it’s over, he takes deep breaths. The air in and out of his mouth whistles and wheezes between his gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” he mutters. Breen looks at him with--what, pity? Sympathy? He sits tall, even as his back and chest ache. “The doctors, in the medbay--” Breen leans forward, his elbows on his desk, and puts his chin on his balled hands. It’s not pity or sympathy; it’s a look that picks him apart with surgical precision. “--they didn’t  say anything about--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A recurrence?” Michael shakes his head minutely. He schools his face, allowing only disinterest in the subject. “No. There haven’t been any new growths, as of their screening.” That had been a week ago. He tucks the handkerchief back into its pocket neatly. He smooths down his jacket and runs a hand through his hair. He stands to go. “Is there anything you require of me, Dr. Breen, or did you call me in here to just wish me luck? As you know, the test, is in a few minutes. I’d like to be on my way to witness it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The administrator considers him for a moment, then sighs when he can’t find a single thing to keep the subject from changing. “That will be all.” He stands as well. He lowers his voice. “No can know, Michael, not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re good at your job, so I have utmost faith in you. After all, you’re our government man, our...</span>
  <em>
    <span>g-man</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if you will.” He gives Michael a trying smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent doesn’t mirror him. It will be his best kept secret, because there is nothing to tell anyone. “Indeed, Dr. Breen,” he says dryly, “I’ll see you after the test.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After the test,” Breen echoes, almost thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael turns, and walks out the door. Expendable. Not even Cave Johnson had said that to him. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>audacity.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he’s back in that long, fluorescent lit hallway, he puts a hand to his forehead. He’s sweating bullets--it feels as though his chest is about to burst. He starts coughing, first small, forceful puffs, then like he’s choking. The dust in the air, maybe, that has to be the cause--he fumbles and drops his handkerchief. It’s only allergies. He can barely see straight. He keels over, and at some point drops his briefcase, too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Allergies</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thumping boots come his way, and a warm hand goes to his shoulder and the small of his back to help him up. The scent of laundry soap comes into his nostrils through rough and erratic inhales. He grabs a hold of the nearest thing--a cotton shirt. White, cuffed at the wrists. A bullet-proof vest, by the padding his other hand feels. His heart sinks; it beats in his stomach, acting as a secure, yet unnatural, anchor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy there, Michael,” the person holding him says, “You’ll cough up your lungs if ya continue hackin’ like that.” He doesn’t miss the southern tinge in the man’s voice, even as his lungs threaten to pop. The sound of his voice makes his heart hammer like a </span>
  <span>panicked bass line. “That’s alright. You’ll be right as rain in a few. C’mon, can’t have our g-man dyin’ on us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man leads him down the hall, back towards the platform. He says something to the guard on duty, but Michael doesn’t catch it. He sits down. His handkerchief is pressed into his hands, and he covers his mouth. He tastes copper on his lips. He hangs his head, riding it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over as suddenly as it had begun. The coughs dwindle to a wheezing stop. Michael’s head pounds like a drum, and for a moment he closes his eyes. Damn fluorescent lights. Something cold is handed to him and he opens his eyes, seeing a glass of water. He gratefully takes a sip. The cold soothes his throat. “Thank you, Arlo,” says the man to the guard on duty, “That’ll be all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-Yes...Yes, sir.” Arlo returns to his station, but not without throwing a glance over his shoulder. The notion that he's not the only one disconcerted by the chief’s presence puts Michael at relative ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man observes Michael the entire time. His eyes really are that pure shade of turquoise--he had always thought that they were some dry, dead green, and that it had just been the test chamber’s light, but here he is, with his shockingly, brilliant blue eyes. They’d be beautiful, if his last memory of them hadn’t been seeing them pop out at him from the darkness of the medbay. Waking up to such a thing from a morphine induced nap had given him nightmares, filled with nothing but pieces of conversations he wouldn’t remember upon waking up--and those damn eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T-Thank you,” Michael says, voice scratchy and reluctant; he’d hate to owe </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>to this man. “Mr. Calhoun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles. It’s a small thing, devoid of any real joy. The scar on his cheek creases with the action, as does the small nick above his right eyebrow. Old scars; he has his share of them. He gives Michael his briefcase. The agent holds it close. “It’s my pleasure, Michael. Please--call me Calhoun. Everyone does."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael purses his lips. "Yes, I'm aware of what people call you," he says, "I've worked here for two years. Thank you, Calhoun, I 'll, be on my way." When he stands to go, Calhoun puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks at him through half-lidded eyes; their color is almost hypnotic. </span>
</p><p>"You rest up," he murmurs, "Can't have you goin' back to that medbay, not when we need you the most."<br/><br/>"And, I wonder, who was the man who put me there in the first pl-ace?"</p><p>Calhoun scoffs. "Can't blame a man if you don't remember what happened. How's that concussion?" Michael narrows his eyes. He lets nothing on his face betray his anger; the chief won't get under his skin.</p><p>"It's none of your concern. As I said, I am taking my leave. Goodbye, Calhoun." Calhoun looks him up and down, and seemingly satisfied, lets go. As Michael leaves, feathers ruffled and suitcase swinging at his side, Calhoun calls out after him.</p><p>"Michael," he says, "I'll see you after the test."</p><p>Michael doesn't give him the satisfaction of turning around and acknowledging him. An after party with Breen and Calhoun, the two men who taunt him with information he isn't, apparently, cleared for--oh, he's just jumping for <em>joy</em>.</p><p>--</p><p>[SUBJECT: GORDON]<br/>[STATUS: Arrived]</p><p>[SUBJECT: MICHAEL]<br/>[STATUS: In transit]</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>when i say things are about to get weird i MEAN IT. y'all might wanna pay attention to the timestamps...it's not groundbreaking but it is a little fun detail. next saturday we get into the thick of things! hope u can wait that long :]</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Resonance, in C Major</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gordon stands, mesmerized by the crystal. It really <i>is</i> singing. He has no ear for music, nothing for notes<br/>or keys, but he knows it’s a prelude; a build up to something much, much bigger. The idea makes the hairs along the back of his neck rise.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this au has a sideblog:<a href="url">https://security-chief-calhoun.tumblr.com/</a><br/>where i post questions asked to the characters, WIPS, and fanart! please pop by sometime or drop an ask!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><strong>DATE:</strong> May 16, 9:05am</p><p>
  <strong>ANOMALOUS MATERIALS</strong>
</p><p>“Hiya, doc,” the guard at the door says, “running late again I see?” Gordon shrugs, then gestures to the door. “Yeah, don’t worry, I got it.” He goes to swipe his ID and looks over his shoulder at Gordon. “They needed you in the test chamber thirty minutes ago. Luckily you got here after that nasty system crash.” The doors slide open with a soft <em> woosh. </em>“Get going!”</p><p>He doesn’t need to be told twice. He tries to avoid his colleagues as he makes his way to the locker room. “Good morning, Gordon!” A scientist greets him upon entering. He waves. “Another day, another dollar.” He nods emphatically. </p><p>He quickly does a thumbs up, rotates it out to the side like he’s gesturing to something, then takes the same hand and points his first finger into the inside of his elbow, with the arm holding the opposite elbow. <em> Another day. </em> The scientist seems pleased with the answer.</p><p>He tosses the empty styro cup into the bin. Gordon opens his closet and hangs his coat and ID up. He undoes his tie. He notices his hands are shaking; nervousness? It’s not the caffeine. It never does anything for him; he just likes the taste. He hadn’t been lying when he had told Michael just how nervous he is. It’s a big day. Supposedly, this specimen would bring forth a new<em> era </em> of science. They had never had such a pure sample before. They can’t mess this up.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, and counts to four. <em> You’ve got this, Gordon, </em> he pep talks himself, <em> It can’t be hard to push a crystal into the beam. This is what the MIT trained you for! </em></p><p>He closes his locker. He slips into the HEV suit. A pleasant jingle plays when he takes it from its stand. The boots have always been so <em> tight </em>. He grimaces as it pinches his toes, but he soldiers on and goes back down the hall to the test chamber. Scientists and guards alike greet and scold him, and some of the latter is not entirely jokingly. </p><p>One man stops him in his tracks. It’s the chief of security that walks against the current, in that white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black tie, and heavy boots--Gordon’s heart leaps out of his HEV suit. The man gives him a once over with a sly grin. Gordon picks at his hair, suddenly conscious of his appearance. He should’ve had it trimmed ages ago. Oh, God, he should’ve cut the <em> ponytail </em>off.</p><p>“Good mornin’, doc,” Calhoun says, “You’re pretty in shape for a man of science.” There’s a tone of appreciation in his voice. Gordon flushes. “That HEV suit fits snug. Good luck with the test, Dr. Freeman.”</p><p>Before Gordon can sign anything, the man walks right past him and down the hall. The scientist catches himself staring at his back as he goes. He can’t fight the grin that starts to take root on his face. His cheeks are warm. <em> You’re pretty in shape for a man of science. </em> Those are the most amount of words Calhoun has ever said to him. In fact, it’s the longest the man has been in his mere <em> presence. </em> He’s confused, sure, but he’s more ecstatic than anything. <em> You’re pretty in shape. </em></p><p>He gets to the chamber with a skip in his step.</p><p>“There you are,” Dr. Isaac Kleiner says as he enters. He tuts, hands on his hips. He’s wearing the blue shirt today; his lucky color. “Gordon, really! Today of all days--just what were you doing last night?”</p><p>He ducks his head, still grinning. He makes another thumbs up and rotates it over his chest twice. <em> Sorry, Isaac. </em>Dr. Eli Vance sidles over with a knowing smile. Crow’s feet wrinkle in the corner of his eyes.</p><p>“Oh, I know exactly what he was doing last night,” he says, “<em> Duke of Action </em> at one in the morning, hmm? I swear, I can still hear gunfire, even if I close my eyes!” Gordon nods emphatically, not really listening. That smile Calhoun had given him--good <em> God </em>above. He straightens up when Eli looks at him with a cheeky smirk. “You seem to be in a good mood, Gordon. Did you talk to Mr. Calhoun this morning?”</p><p>Gordon’s ears and cheeks heat up something awful and he splays his hands out, struggling to come up with a good enough excuse for his good mood. Before he can sign, the third scientist, who had been fiddling around with the console, clears his throat and interrupts them.</p><p>“Gentlemen,” A scientist by the name of Dr. Bradley, from what Gordon can see on his ID, addresses them sternly, “the test?”</p><p>“Can’t friends talk?” Isaac mutters. Dr. Bradley glances at him, then turns back to the console. Gordon shakes his head. Test first, Calhoun after. “As you know, Dr. Freeman, this specimen is quite unique.” Eli gets them back on track. “We’ll be deviating from standard procedure to accommodate its potential.”</p><p>Gordon grimaces. He signs, <em> Is that safe? </em>Eli’s smile dampens. “It’ll be alright,” he hums, though it sounds like he’s just convincing himself. “We know what we’re doing. Now, you better get going, Gordon.” The scientist says goodbye, then goes through the door.</p><p>Once he’s in the chamber, Dr. Kleiner and Dr. Bradley come over the intercom. He turns the spectrometer on. Its mechanical hum fills the chamber. They tell him the specimen will be up in just a moment. Gordon isn’t prepared for its size; it really is one unique crystal. It glows a bright yellow, and when he gets close to it, he realizes it’s singing. A small tune, no longer than a few notes. He shakes his head. It must be the spectrometer making the noise. The more he ignores it, the more the two sounds blend into an unnatural harmony.</p><p>He puts his hands on the cart’s handle and starts to push. It’s heavy, too. This crystal means business.</p><p>The song grows louder and louder.</p><p>--</p><p>[9:13am]<br/><br/></p><p>Agent Michael is on his way to Anomalous Materials when the tram shudders to a stop. He doesn’t blink--the trams are subject to a system crash sometimes. He drums his fingers against his suitcase. Calhoun had sent him off after the drink without another word.</p><p>His mind is racing. There’s a very real possibility that he’s had a recurrence. His pocket square is more red than white. He can barely talk without that damned whistling noise coming out of his mouth. He’s convinced it has something to do with the machine--his cough had taken root during his recovery. It had been so bad, it had warranted a screening. But they found <em> nothing. </em> No new growths. If this really is a recurrence...it could kill him. Aperture had left him in a worse state physically than legally. He had gone five years without a relapse. <em> Five. </em></p><p>Apart from that, just what had Calhoun been doing there by the administrator’s office? It doesn’t make a lick of sense. The tram comes every ten minutes, so he couldn’t have arrived after him. There isn’t much in the area besides the office and a few vending machines. Perhaps he had arrived earlier. That made sense, yes--an administrator would want to chat with his chief of security. He’s just being paranoid for no reason. He won’t let that <em> little man </em> get under his skin; he won’t let him take any more control from him.</p><p>Calhoun is nothing more than Breen’s guard dog. Calhoun comes only when beckoned. The idea paints him as a mutt--it makes Michael grin, despite his mounting anxieties about the present condition of his health. He leans back in his seat. He’ll be on his way soon. It’s just a system crash.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>As soon as the crystal slides under the beam, Gordon knows something is wrong. The beam is not one steady stream like it’s supposed to be, to cleave the sample in two and examine its finer grooves; it’s almost like lightning, wavering and striking. Charged and powerful, but unlike lightning, it has one target: the crystal. </p><p>“That’s...not right.” Dr. Kleiner’s voice comes through the intercom. “Attempting shutdown.” A meter of some kind ticks wildly in the background. Papers are shuffled around. A small cup set aside. “Shutdown is...not working. Oh, dear. Attempting shutdown once more.”</p><p>Gordon stands, mesmerized by the crystal. It really <em> is </em>singing. He has no ear for music, nothing for notes or keys, but he knows it’s a prelude; a build up to something much, much bigger. The idea makes the hairs along the back of his neck rise.</p><p>“It’s not--Dr. Bradley,<em> where </em>are you going?” Shuffling feet. A door swinging open.  Gordon flinches as one of the microphones is knocked over and erupts in feedback. It’s picked right back up again, and Eli is the one to speak into it.</p><p>“So, Dr. Bradley has taken his leave,” he says, breathless. “Gordon, those beams--we don’t know what they’ll do to you if you come into contact with them. Just stay put. Izzy--Dr. Kleiner and I will figure something out.”</p><p>With a click, the intercom shuts off, leaving Gordon alone with the spectrometer. It’s like several beehives have broken open around him; the buzz is overwhelming, and as it crescendos, the lightning becomes wild, bucking this way and that. He throws himself onto the ground with a grunt as a beam strikes the wall where his head had just been. He touches the side of his head; hair burnt at the ends, but otherwise unharmed.</p><p>He pushes himself up and against the wall. He inches towards the chamber doors. The crystal, it seems, is beginning to break under the strain of the spectrometer. It has a fine crack right down its middle. Whatever Eli and Kleiner are about to do, Gordon wills that they do it faster. That crystal isn’t going to hold out for much longer. A minute, maybe, two if he’s lucky.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>The tram trembles. Good, it must be on its way. Michael wouldn’t want to miss the test. He sits, waiting, but it doesn’t move. He frowns and stands. Just as he does, the car lurches forward and he stumbles, but manages to keep on his feet. The trembling intensifies, until it becomes a steady shaking. Somewhere above him, metal creaks, like the whole facility is about to fall apart. The car swings side to side. </p><p>“Good God,” he mutters under his breath, “Aperture, is looking bet-ter every day.”</p><p>Then, a bang, somewhere far off. Another, closer. That doesn’t sound good. Another OSHA violation, probably. He swings his gaze around. He hadn’t been paying much attention on the journey. The car’s caught in the middle of an intersection. He can see through a laboratory’s windows on his left, with an empty break room on his right. There’s a maintenance ladder by a small platform just outside. The door won’t open for it, however--no emergency buttons. There are windows, though, if worse comes to worst.</p><p>The scientists and guards inside the first room are just as confused as he is. They move about, checking equipment. He fiddles with his tie--he always knots it too tight--and sits back down. An alarm sounds above. He closes his eyes, counts to three; Black Mesa is starting to test his patience.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>The explosionechoes throughout the chamber. Gordon flinches, and parts of the spectrometer begin to rain down on him. A hot bolt, here. A screw, there. A tube of melted mass that might’ve been a piece of piping. The top of the spectrometer has burst into flames. That is <em>not good.</em> </p><p>He takes one of the bolts from the floor and tosses it at the observation deck’s window. It bounces off the glass without making so much as a chip in it. The observation deck remains empty. He huffs, then throws another one. This time, it catches Kleiner’s attention.</p><p>Gordon waves, then gestures to the great burning machine above him, almost sarcastically. He signs, <em> Help! </em> Kleiner rushes away with a look of alarm and in a few seconds the intercom turns on.</p><p>“It’s caught on fire?!” He squeaks, “My God, Gordon, you have to get out of there! Give me a moment, surely there must be some way I can override the door...”</p><p>“Izzy, hold on--” Shuffling feet. Falling books.</p><p>Gordon hears a terrible grinding sound above him. A rotor has displaced itself. The crystal and the lightning--they turn into a fantastic shade of <em> green. </em>It emits a bright flash, blinding him for a second and causing him to stumble. His back smacks into the wall.</p><p>“<em> Gordon! </em>” Kleiner. Gordon’s whole mouth feels like cotton. He gags, covering his mouth. More grinding noises. More fire showering him. Sparks fly on the other side of the chamber. A panel has broken off its wall, as if the crystal is pulling everything in the room towards it.</p><p>These are the last things he sees before everything disappears.</p><p>For a moment, he thinks he’s passed out, or even worse, died. He hadn’t felt any pain. At first, he makes peace with this idea. It had been painless; another grunt lost in an unfortunate accident. Black Mesa would lose a few million for the damage to the HEV suit and the chamber, but they’re not going to take it out of his paycheck any time soon. </p><p>He has regrets, of course. He’ll miss Eli and Kleiner; they had been his best friends. They’ll move on to brighter and bigger things without him, some part of him hopes. They’ll live good lives. That’s all he wants for them. Maybe, in some other life, they would've gotten over themselves and finally gotten together--finally give a fire to those flying sparks. He’s just sad he won’t see it.</p><p>Mr. Calhoun. He regrets not talking to him sooner. He tried, God, did he try to talk to Calhoun. But he...He’s still thinking; he’s still conscious. <em> Alive. </em> Alive! The rush of relief makes him lightheaded. He’s not dead!</p><p>He’s standing--his feet are planted firmly on some kind of ground. He can hear his own loud, harsh breathing, echoing in a seemingly empty chamber. The quiet is unnerving. Wherever he is, he’s not in Black Mesa.</p><p>The lights come back on just as quick as they had been blown out, as though he had just blinked, but he is <em> definitely </em>not back in Black Mesa. </p><p>Psychedelic skies go on forever above him, dotted with strange birds, and under him over the edge of the small island, a world that is utterly bottomless. It’s a world straight out of a sci-fi movie. He’s standing upright for now, but the heights turn his legs into jelly. Large winged creatures glide lazily about. Gordon whips his head around, sucking in a terrified breath. The sight is gone yet again in a heartbeat.</p><p>A veil of darkness surrounds him. He can see maybe two, three feet in front of him because of the light from his suit<em> . </em>He’s alone for all of two minutes before a bright red eye peers at him from the void. Another. Three, four--eight. They surround him in a circle. One of the them steps forwards and Gordon takes a step back in turn. In the low light, he can barely make out what it is. It holds its two, three-fingered hands out to him, its wrists shackled with cuffs, as if asking for alms.</p><p><em>The Free-man, </em>The thing speaks directly into his ea; it has a low, gravelly voice<em>.</em> <em>The one Free-man.</em></p><p>The phrase is repeated, over and over again. <em> The Free-man. The Free-man.  </em></p><p>
  <em> The one Free-man. </em>
</p><p>It’s like they’re grovelling at his feet, whispering their worship. Gordon has never been a man worthy of sainthood, let alone <em>worship. </em>His last name is just that: a name. It means <em>nothing.</em></p><p>To them, it seems to mean everything.</p><p>A new voice joins their chorus. It begins quietly, at first skulking in the background. The choir hesitate, unsure of what to do, before their leader continues strong and they follow suit. </p><p>As the newcomer’s voice rises, it tramples all competition and the choir fades. Gordon can feel their fear. It comes in waves, pushing and tugging, surrounding him. Their leader steps back into the shadows, and their eyes melt away, leaving Gordon alone.</p><p><em> Free...man. </em> As opposed to the previous chorus of awe, this voice mocks him, cleaving his last name into two, dissecting it. He presses his hands to his ears to drown it out, but it’s futile. Whatever <em> it </em>is, it’s in Gordon’s head.</p><p>
  <em> He is not who he says...what he says...what he says. </em>
</p><p>He wants to go home.</p><p>
  <em> You...are man...He is not...man. </em>
</p><p>He won’t listen. He won’t, not when he can’t understand.</p><p>
  <em> The truth. </em>
</p><p>The voice is quiet, but cacophonous. It’s barely human. It speaks nonsense--Gordon’s hands on his ears tighten.</p><p>
  <em> The truth. </em>
</p><p>He smells burning cotton. A lab coat turned to shreds. Two coats. A leg that can’t be saved.</p><p>
  <em> The truth. </em>
</p><p>Formaldehyde. Laboratories with spilled chemicals. Broken beakers. Broken windows; by accident or made so on purpose. There are things to be escaped, <em> Dr. Freeman. Better get to escapin’. </em></p><p><em> Get out of my head. </em> The plea goes unheard by the two trains of thought that are running loops around his head. Two voices push him down, neither of which are his.</p><p>He hears water somewhere far off, lapping at a hostile shore. He can’t tell if his eyes are squeezed shut. There is nothing else but these voices, this veil that surrounds him. There is no Kleiner, there is no Eli, no Black Mesa--there is no Freeman.</p><p>
  <em> You will never know the truth. </em>
</p><p>The ground disappears from out under him. He falls, a long, long way, but it’s slow, almost as if he’s trudging through sludge. His thoughts are the same; sluggish. Empty.</p><p>Everything that follows after is not slow. Not the <em> bang </em>as he hits the floor, nor the pain that crawls up his neck and into his head. The smoke that fills his lungs, which he tries to dispel in a futile coughing fit, which dwindles to small, frail wheezes. The blood that’s quick to drip from his nose and onto his lips.</p><p>The way Gordon's eyes roll back into his head is not slow; neither is the veil that descends, nor the silence in the carnage that follows.</p><p>--</p><p>[SUBJECT: Gordon Freeman]<br/>[STATUS: ???]</p><p>[SUBJECT: Michael]<br/>[STATUS: ???]</p><p>[STANDBY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.]</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>god i love using music to describe things. anyway im starting school proper on monday, so the next chapter might not come on saturday, but we'll just have to see :] meanwhile you can peruse the sideblog cough cough cause ill be answering some twenty something asks with doodles! come n hang out :D</p><p>gordo's <i> probably </i> fine. probably :-)</p><p>edit: just fixed up a detail that's been irking me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Maintenance Required</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“WARNING: BIOHAZARD DETECTED,” the Black Mesa Announcement system echoes through the tunnels, “SECTOR C CONTAMINATION IN PROGRESS.”</p><p>According to the fading green paint along the walls of the intersection, Sector C just so happens to be where Agent Michael, much to his chagrin, is dangling over a twenty foot drop in a tram that refuses to move. </p><p>A red letter day indeed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this au has a sideblog: https://security-chief-calhoun.tumblr.com/<br/>where i post questions asked to the characters, post WIPS, and do fanart! please pop by sometime!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“WARNING: BIOHAZARD DETECTED,” the Black Mesa Announcement system echoes through the tunnels, “SECTOR C CONTAMINATION IN PROGRESS.” <br/><br/>According to the fading green paint along the walls of the intersection, Sector C just so happens to be where Agent Michael, much to his chagrin, is dangling over a twenty foot drop in a tram that refuses to move. A red letter day indeed.</p><p>The scientists in the laboratory to his left are in a state of pandemonium. One of them grabs the other by the lapel, shaking him like a soda can. The security guard, with the help of another scientist, wrestles him away and keeps the two far apart. They start a shouting match, jabbing their fingers in each other’s faces. The guard looks between them, confused.</p><p>Not a single one of them notices Michael in the tram car only a few feet away--even as he makes a fool of himself waving his arms around. He sighs. He picks up his briefcase; such sensitive information needs to be on hand at all times. He won’t panic. He’s faced things far more fatal things than a twenty foot drop. A long, long time ago, Michael had learned the best way to control his panic is to refrain from controlling it at all. Instead, he focuses on what he can and cannot control.</p><p>Right now, he can control how he gets out of this damn tin box. He can’t control the pandemonium that’s happening adjacent to him, so he eases them from his mind. He brings everything to the foreground. There’s a door--it won’t budge, as there’s no emergency button. Stiff, turquoise chairs. The foam inside is probably older than he is. It won’t be of any use. Windows, four, on either side, and two in the front and back. All six lack glass.</p><p>He figures he could jump out the window and onto the maintenance ladder. He’ll slide down a few rungs before he can get a proper grip--it’s why he wears leather gloves--and it’s a sounder plan than getting the attention of the scientists. When he looks back at them, they’re still at each other’s throats. He doesn’t recognize any of them from the chamber. There must’ve been more people involved with Black Mesa’s pet project than he had known.</p><p>A multitude of small bangs go off in the distance. The tram trembles again with a creak and a moan and dust rains down from the roof of the tunnel. Now that Michael thinks about it, the sounds are coming from his intended destination: Anomalous Materials. The crystal must’ve...done <em> something </em> --he had known immediately upon seeing it for the first time that it had been truly <em> dangerous </em>. A stone with unknown properties, unheard of by man. Then again, what does he know? He isn’t a scientist. He hadn’t said anything to dissuade the science team from dissecting it--it’s not his area of expertise. There are scientists on that team more capable than he, so why wouldn’t they have known?</p><p>His thoughts and him pause. They back track.</p><p><em> Gordon. </em> Gordon had been in that test chamber. He had been the <em> only </em>one in that test chamber--up close and personal with the crystal.</p><p> Shit. For a moment, he lets the panic and worry run around in his head. He could be hurt, or...or worse. Then, Michael shakes his head. He can’t worry about this now. It won’t help either of them. Once he gets out safely, he’ll make his way to the chamber. Gordon will be safe and sound.</p><p>He’s looking out the window at the laboratory, weighing his options, when a bright flash of green pierces his eyes. He whips his head away instinctively, throwing his hands up to block the light.</p><p>When he looks back, squinting with caution, he sees a creature through the windows. His blood stops cold in his veins. It’s...it’s one of those <em> things. </em></p><p>It’s got a lumpy body with a curled spine, green, wrinkly skin, and three spindly arms. Its long neck, wrists, and bovine ankles are shackled. Its appearance has been pressed into his mind, like a charcoal rubbing of previously erased pencil writing. The silhouette is there, the words--it’s been there ever since he had landed in the med bay, in the back of his mind, just out of reach. But now it’s <em> here, </em>in Black Mesa, in front of his very eyes. The sight fills the memory of the creature with full, disgusting color. Not its surroundings, not yet, much to his frustration, but it will do.</p><p>There are words that accompany the charcoal image, words that he’s held onto and that have held onto him like a vice--<em> They were in our way. </em>It’s an unfamiliar scrawl; a different voice.</p><p>The creature’s skin crackles with strands of electricity.. The hairs on the back of Michael’s neck rise, and the rush of goosebumps spur him out of his daze and to action. The scientists, distracted from their skirmish, stand in awe. “Idiots, <em> idiots-- </em> ” Michael smacks the window’s frame with his palm and yells--“ <em> RUN </em>!” </p><p>It’s futile. With the laboratory’s glass windows, he might as well be yelling at someone through an iceberg. For a moment, there is a pause. Alien observing human, and vice versa. Wonder and awe--horror is secondary.</p><p>There’s hesitation in the creature’s slow movements. But none from the power that surges through its body and lashes out in deadly spears of light. It fries the first scientist it sees in mere seconds. His body slides up against the window, and Michael can only be grateful that his back his facing him. He’s seen what the human body will crumble into when introduced to enough wattage.</p><p>Black scorch marks strike the ground as a multitude of bolts chase after their target: the facilitator of the altercation. He jumps from this table to that, while his colleagues bumble about. He finally dives behind a desk, and the others follow suit.</p><p>The security guard, remembering his job, unloads several bullets into the alien. Its yellow blood splatters all over the floor and his boots. The scientists emerge from their hiding spot slowly, heads poking out one by one. Before Michael can wave them down, they run out the door in a loose pack. Michael swears under his breath. He doesn’t doubt that that’s not the last he’ll see of them.</p><p>“EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY,” the system continues, and an alarm begins to sound. “EVACUATE, EVAC--” It cuts off, dead silence filling its place. A distant explosion rattles the car once more, and once more it groans. Michael has a bad feeling about this. </p><p>His best option is the maintenance ladder, but the door won’t budge, and, of course, there isn’t a safety mechanism in place in case of an emergency. Just as he puts his shoe against the sill of the window facing the ladder, he stops. The creaking hasn’t ceased. It’s only a matter of time before it--</p><p>The car starts to shake. At first, small trembles. Then, stronger, like Michael’s legs have turned to jelly. He can barely stand straight. A few machine parts rain down around the tram car. The roof radiates heat--no doubt a fire. The car lilts backwards, like a seesaw, and the sound of chords snapping reverberates through the tunnel and in his ears.</p><p>Michael can’t contain his yelp of terror as he goes tumbling down into the backend. His back smacks into the floor. His stomach drops several feet further than he does. He shoves his hand out, reaching for something, anything--his hand finds one of those awful blue seats, seats that are more rock than cotton, but right now he can’t be picky about his savior.</p><p>And right now, Michael dangles from a tram seat, one hand holding on for dear life. He’s still got a hold on his briefcase. He breathes a sigh of relief. These documents are not only his life--they’re his<em> weapons </em>. The swirling black abyss looms below, and his stomach turns at the sight of it. He shakes his head; just a small bump in the plan. With great effort--he notes sourly that he’s not as young and spry as he used to be--he pulls himself up and clambers onto the backrest. A large, thick cable from the tram’s roof has fallen in-between the aisles. A live red wire snaps and sparks beside it. He’ll have to grapple to get to the other quartet of windows. </p><p>He eases on over to the edge of the backrest and grabs the wire. He tugs, making sure it’s taut. When the wire doesn’t snap, he kicks off, briefcase in hand. He kicks his legs back and forth in an effort to generate momentum. Forward, back, forward, back--almost there. The fire on the roof of the tram is growing. Michael feels the heat wafting upwards. Sweat drips down his chin.</p><p>He’s about to make it to the next aisle of seats when the wire jolts and loosens, dropping about two feet and taking Michael with it. He lets out a terrified puff and manages to keep his grip. He’s built enough momentum, though, so no loss there. He’s now an arm’s length from the window. The red maintenance ladder taunts him from outside. He reaches out, shaking fingers touching only a hair’s width of the window’s frame. A bead of sweat rolls down his nose and dives off the tip of it and down into the void. His fingers grasp at the sill. He’s almost got it.</p><p>A loud chewing sound above him stops him in his tracks. He wouldn’t put it past Black Mesa to have a rat problem, but on the<em> tram </em>? Naive curiosity brings his attention to the sound and he gapes. </p><p>That is <em> not </em>a rat.</p><p>What the creature is, Michael can’t say. It’s deformed, with two long spindly legs wrapped around the tram’s belt. It gnaws hungrily at the wire with no visible set of teeth. It’s making progress, however, as inch by inch, the wire gives way. The small, sudden jolts slow down his swinging. The underside of it, or its belly, for lack of a better term, is dripping with fresh blood.</p><p>A drop of it splatters onto his forehead, which rends a gasp of disgust from the agent. It’s out before he can catch it. The creature pauses. It has no eyes, but Michael can feel its gaze picking him apart. </p><p>The agent very, very carefully, puts the handle of his briefcase in between his teeth. Thank God he wears gloves; he can’t imagine the germs if he didn’t. The two rubber and leather layers have kept his hands clean.</p><p>He grimaces at the leather texture, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to be picky at the moment. With his free hand, he reaches into his jacket. He finds the grip of the pistol and brings it out of its holster. For an old man, he realizes, he’s doing a good job of hanging on with just one hand. These government issued firearms always do the trick.</p><p>Human observes alien, and vice versa. Michael pushes the hammer pin down. </p><p>It makes a soft <em> click. </em></p><p>He might as well have fired.</p><p>The creature, with a screech, lunges at him. He wrenches both his head and body back, the wire moving another inch. Michael nearly drops his briefcase when he sees that the creature has caught onto it. Its legs gnash and scrabble against the metal in an effort to keep a grip. He strikes it with the barrel of his gun, but it persists. He whips his head around to try and throw it off, but even still it holds on for dear life. In their struggle, the wire swings wildly back and forth, tearing minute by minute. </p><p>Michael can’t keep track of his surroundings. It’s all a blur. He swings his arm out to keep them in balance--but he swings too hard. His gun leaves his grip. He has to force himself to keep his jaw clamped down tight as he watches its trajectory. Thankfully, it falls onto one of the seats; it’s just his luck that it’s near his destination. He breathes a sigh of relief through his nose.</p><p>The alien’s growl in his right ear alert him that he’s not in the clear yet. He’s without a weapon, and he’s not about to put his hands anywhere near that thing. He’s not dropping the briefcase, either. In exasperation, he looks up. </p><p>The live wire--<em> of course. </em>He doesn’t wear gloves for nothing. He gets them swinging again, determined now. The alien obviously hates it, as it screeches and scrabbles to keep a hold on its prey. When they rise high enough, Michael snatches the wire and jabs it into the alien’s side. The hairs rise on the back of his neck as the electricity trembles through his briefcase.</p><p>The effect is instantaneous; the fried smell, even more so. With one, final screech, the alien dies. Yellow blood stains drips from his briefcase. There’s a black scorch mark on it, too. The creature’s carcass falls down, down into the abyss. Michael hurriedly takes the handle his briefcase out of his mouth, swinging on the tram belt. He twists his body back around towards the windows. </p><p>He takes a deep breath. He’s in control again; and where he goes next, is dependent on <em> that ladder. </em>He waits for the wire to shift backwards before extending his legs out as it comes forward. </p><p>He jumps. </p><p>The sudden loss of an anchor turns his stomach over. He hears the wire snap just as he lets go. He grunts as his midsection hits the windowsill, and immediately throws his arms over the sill. Once he’s caught his breath, he grabs the frame of the window and uses it to hoist himself up to a sitting position. He grabs his gun from the seat. The sight of the ladder is deeply comforting. A smile starts to grow on his lips. Small victories.</p><p>He leaps from the ledge and grabs a rung. He lets his briefcase hang as he turns around to look at the tram car. The fire is burning significantly now; it glows so brightly Michael has to divert his attention elsewhere. The tram’s overhead line has unwoven into several thick lines that fall around the car like hair. </p><p>The agent begins his descent. His briefcase, as much as it contains vital information--information someone would <em>kill </em>for--is starting to become a real nuisance.</p><p>He holds the handle with his thumb as he carefully climbs down. He’s not sure where this leads--his map of Black Mesa’s maintenance shafts had been in his other briefcase. </p><p>Ten rungs down, he hears a <em> snap </em> behind him. Then, cacophony erupts. Metal scraping and breaking apart--the noise wraps around his ears like headphones and he throws himself against the ladder, frozen by fear. The last time he’s been surrounded by such a raucous...well, the past is out of his control. He reminds himself he is here, in this moment, clinging to a red ladder, in the world’s most dangerous science facility, and that each rung is another step towards control and safety; <em> stability. </em></p><p>Heat rushes past him, and his suit jacket flies up. A few minutes later, he hears a crash. The metal crunches as it makes its impact. He looks down at the abyss. There’s a small dot of flickering orange where the wreckage is. To think that could’ve been him, had he taken a minute longer. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and resumes his climb down. </p><p>The ladder leads to another tram platform. Michael takes a moment to lean out to the left and gaze at the wreckage. It’s almost beautiful, in a torn, shredded, and alight way. The tram lines hum with electricity. Above him, a floodlight springs to life. It seems that the facility’s regaining power again. He goes down the platform’s right side but stops when a powerful smell of sewage hits him. He scrunches his nose, but continues his stride. </p><p>A maintenance door stands between him and the smell of rotting eggs, waste, dead things, and Gordon. “The things I do for Dr. Freeman.” he mutters, hand on the door, and pushes.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>[SUBJECT: MICHAEL]</p><p>[STATUS: In transit]</p><p> </p><p>[SUBJECT: GORDON]</p><p>[STATUS: ???]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and we're BACK, BABY! i've got another three chapters for all of you! stay tuned to find out just what happened to our lovely HEV suited scientist!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Repercussions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Down in Sector C, Anomalous Materials, elevators and doors shudder to a halt. The door to the test chamber is half open--its corners spark with waning electricity. Bits of catwalk lay here and there. The entire chamber is littered with an archipelago of spectrometer parts, and the machine itself continues to fizzle.</p><p>Somewhere under these isles of rubble, Gordon wakes up with a gasp.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lemme tell ya, i really loved writing this chapter. just, something about it--you'll see!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Black Mesa Announcement System has gone quiet. An alarm takes its place; its warble echoes throughout the hallways, accompanying scientists and guards alike and nipping at their heels to keep them running. Any light that’s still functioning is red, and it washes the walls in a similar tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Creatures of all kinds shamble after the crowd. Lumpy, green things with rattling shackles. Rotund parasites; either alone, or on the shoulders of an animated, bloody corpse, piloting it forward. They don’t run--their prey will find themselves in a corner soon enough. Even aliens know the virtue of patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down in Sector C, Anomalous Materials, elevators  and doors shudder to a halt. The door to the test chamber is half open--its corners spark with waning electricity. Bits of catwalk lay here and there. The entire chamber is littered with an archipelago of spectrometer parts, and the machine itself continues to fizzle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere under these isles of rubble, Gordon wakes up with a gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first sensation that hits him is the thick layer of dust caked on his tongue. He gags and coughs, expelling it in rapid puffs. The second thing he registers is the fact that he’s laying belly down with a slab of rubble on top of him, pinning him down. He draws in a sharp breath, verging on the edge of panic. With shaky hands, he pats the ground, looking for something, anything, to grab and pull himself out. When he doesn’t find anything, his breathing grows agitated. The siren that echoes somewhere far off doesn’t help. He’s stuck. Alone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alone.</span>
  </em>
  <span> What if he can’t get out? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows the stone in his throat and takes a deep, deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One, two, three. Panicking won’t help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agent Michael had told him to, in times of conflict, focus on what he can and can’t control. It’s hard to differentiate the two when he’s currently debating life and death. With another deep breath, he feels his mind clearing enough room for his surroundings. That’s what he can control, right now: his mind and what he sees. Gordon tries to remember what the guards on the blue shift had taught the science team during emergency training.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step one--what on Earth had step one been? He squeezes his eyes shut. Besides dust, it’s on the tip of his tongue...That’s it! Step one: be aware of any injuries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His entire body is bruised and throbbing. His back, in particular. Gordon cards a hand through his hair, and winces when a flare of pain shoots up in his head. A concussion, maybe? When he brings his hand back down, the HEV suit’s glove is soaked with blood. He pales. Definitely a concussion. There’s crusted blood around his nostril. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a wonder his hair had stayed in its ponytail throughout all the commotion. Strands of it fall over his eyes and he brushes them behind his left ear. There, he feels a nick on the helix. He hisses between his teeth--the cut is still fresh. His glasses are miraculously in pristine condition. Dirty, yes, but intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step two: take note of your surroundings. The test chamber is, safe to say, irrevocably </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked</span>
  </em>
  <span> seven ways to Sunday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubble and glass litter the room. Bits of rebar stick out of the ground like spikes. Weak bolts of energy strike the ground. He cranes his neck, noting that the observation room is nowhere in sight, which means either two things: it’s caved in, or he’s directly under it. The former threatens to bring back that tide of restless thoughts, so he keeps his mind on the latter. The chamber doors are on the opposite side of the room, half-way open, with a massive, but surmountable, pile of debris in front of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon could’ve sworn that’s where he had been before the explosion. Though, looking at the piles, had he been there, he would’ve been crushed. How he had ended up on the other side of the room is a mystery to him--the explosion wouldn’t have shot him </span>
  <em>
    <span>forward. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His mind is bursting with questions, but right now he doesn’t have the means to acquire the answers. He isn’t even sure if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know. Gordon is many things, but curious, right now, isn’t one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step three: evacuate immediately and bring any survivors with you. His mind flies to Eli and Isaac. He prays they’re alright; they had been in the immediate area of the explosion. Their only escape route out would’ve been through the observation deck, and half of that has fallen out onto the floor. Those two are the smartest men he’s ever known--they’re probably outside already. Eli must be checking on Azian and Alyx. The family dorms are topside. Gordon isn’t sure of the extent of the damage of the Cascade, and he imagines Eli doesn’t, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Resonance Cascade--he had heard about it, of course, but he never had thought he would’ve gotten the chance to see one in his lifetime. A scientific marvel, had it not almost tried to take Black Mesa and him with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agent Michael, last he saw the man, had been on the way to the Administrator’s office. As long as the agent had gotten there safely, without any tram mishaps--Gordon’s been caught in a fair share of tram system shutdowns himself--he doesn’t have to worry too much about Michael. He’ll be closest to the surface. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Anxiety sparks in his gut like a Tesla coil. He reasons that the agent would’ve been the first to be evacuated, being so close to the top--literally and figuratively, as his status is above them all by leaps and bounds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter now. As long as they make it topside, they’ll be able to fix this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought stirs courage in him. This devastation is temporary. If he wants to help facilitate the clean-up quicker, he’ll have to get out of here. He plants his knuckles onto the ground and pushes himself up, teeth gritted. The debris on his back weighs heavier than the HEV suit itself. Without the suit, his entire skeletal system would’ve been shattered by its weight. The worst thing that could happen would be his legs getting pinned, so crawling out isn’t on the table. He gets on one knee. He places his palms on the slab, takes a shaky breath, and lifts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weight is </span>
  <em>
    <span>agony; </span>
  </em>
  <span>even with the HEV suit. It must be that the suit had lost some power on impact. It feels as though gravity is deliberately going against him. Beads of sweat crawl down his face, running through his dust caked cheeks. With the last of the HEV suit’s power, he manages to get to his feet, until he’s able to crouch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His arms shake with the strain; they’re starting to ache. To any outside spectator, he thinks, he must look like a modern day Atlas. Flattering. He grits his teeth and  stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop </span>
  </em>
  <span>that comes from the suit’s joints causes his adrenaline to spike. He falls forward onto his hands and knees, and the slab, with a floor shaking thud, comes down onto where he had just been. A large billow of concrete powder flies over him. Gordon coughs, covering his mouth with his forearm. Once it settles around him, he gets up. He wobbles, or maybe it’s the ground that’s wobbling--he’s unsure. His vision swims. Ringing erupts in his left ear. He winces, cradling the shell of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon rubs his glasses with the unstained HEV glove. It smears the powder across the lenses, but at least he can see a little more. He turns around and sees the observation room, exactly where he knew it’d be. The glass window is gone, and the catwalk is cleaved in two. The ladder has several missing rungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns and makes for the chamber doors. He scrambles over the rubble, and falls face first over the door. He groans, rubbing his forehead. When he lifts his head, he’s greeted with two empty, and glassy eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gasping, Gordon scrabbles backwards. He throws his arms up. His heart sounds like a jackhammer in his ears, though everything coming through the left is muffled. Once he calms down, he realizes it belongs to a corpse. It’s not a scientist he recognizes--blood stains his lapel and forehead. A bloody piece of debris lays by his head. At least it had been a quick death, all things considered. He stands again, and tries his best to stay as far away from the body as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The retinal scanner on the wall hangs off its hinges, sparking wildly. He hesitates, before leaning down to the receptacle. It makes a small </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the voice that usually confirms or denies a scan comes out as a gibberish. He takes a step back. The door starts to open, then closes, then opens again. He taps his foot. Finally, with a creak, it opens up just enough for him to slip through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, he’s greeted with another dire scene. The hall is washed in red. Several pieces of the ceiling have fallen to the ground. Pipes have burst, and their sewage drips onto the tiles. Lights flicker. A scientist hovers over a fallen security guard, old hands pumping the guard’s chest, putting his ear to it every now and then to look for a heartbeat. A medkit sits beside them. The guard’s complexion is pale--Gordon doesn’t want to think the worst, but it’s not looking pretty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look up when Gordon appears. The scientist mutters to himself, or to the guard, maybe, “Why didn’t they </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon skirts around the two and makes his way down the hall. The elevator to the Ionization Chambers are just at the end of the hall. From there, he can get to the locker room--the phones, and elevators, hopefully, will be working, but Gordon doubts it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator door has several beams in front of it, and one smashed right through the glass, but Gordon clambers over and through the one functioning door and into the lift. He presses the button and up he goes, much to his relief. The doors slide apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps into the Ionization Chambers and sees Eli, hovering over a hunched Dr. Kleiner, who’s sitting against a wall of broken computers. The latter has a bloody hand pressed to his side. His glasses are cracked. They’re covered head to toe in concrete powder. They both look up when he enters, and smiles of joy--relief--grow on their dusty faces. Gordon’s heart flutters at the sight and he nearly runs across the room, and he would’ve, had it not been for his pounding headache. Instead, he just limps across the room like it isn’t the end of the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives them a weak smile. It’s all he can muster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You stay right here, Izzy,” Eli says gently to the man, then stands and turns to him. Eli looks him up and down, a look of worry in his eyes. He touches Gordon’s ear gently and clicks his tongue. “Your ear...are you hurt anywhere else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon hesitates. He points to Eli, then rotates his hand with his thumb up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you? he signs. His concussion is manageable. He’s somewhat grateful for the fact that the lights aren’t working as well as they’re supposed to--the fluorescents would make this already pounding headache unbearable. His blood matted hair will be near unnoticeable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, but Izzy...” Eli rubs his knuckles; his go-to nervous tic. Gordon frowns. “I’d give you something for that nick, but as you can see, we weren’t able to procure a medkit. That fellow down the hall took the last one; wasted it on...” He sighs. “...well, I imagine you saw.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Kleiner looks up. “To be candid with the both of you, it’s my first time having shrapnel inside me.” He winces, forcing out a pained exhale. “Other than that, Gordon, don’t worry. I’m alright. Non-standard procedure for a non-standard specimen--what on Earth were we thinking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s easy to think about the whys and why-nots now that it’s passed,” Eli reminds them. He returns to Dr. Kleiner’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “but right now, we--</span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gordon</span>
  <em>
    <span>--</span>
  </em>
  <span>have to focus on escaping.” His mouth presses into a thin line, brows creasing. “The phones are out, so you’ll have to make your way to the surface; you’ll find help topside. We’ll follow soon after.” His voice drops into a mumble. “Dear God, Azian and Alyx...” He pinches the bride of his nose.</span>
</p><p><span>Gordon’s heart drops into his stomach. He hesitates before pointing to the both of them, then putting two thumbs up side by side. </span><em><span>Together. We go </span></em><span>together.</span> <span>He crosses his arms right after; he’s </span><em><span>not </span></em><span>leaving them behind.</span></p><p>
  <span>Eli smiles thinly, ever so patient. “Gordon,” he says softly, “we can’t argue right now. We don’t have the time. You must go on without us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gordon, I’m in no condition to walk. I’ll only slow us down.” Dr. Kleiner shakes his head furiously. He wipes his glasses against the edge of his lab coat. “You must go ahead Gordon--” Gordon starts to sign a protest, but Dr. Kleiner barrels through it with a stern voice--”You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have to. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re the only one equipped to deal with these...these </span>
  <em>
    <span>things. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We’re counting on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things? What </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He shakes his head minutely. More and more questions, and yet again without answers. He’s the only one with an HEV suit, yes, but it’s not like any of this had been covered in basic training. He barely knows how to use a gun!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon looks between the both of them desperately, his two friends--his </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> friends, he’d consider them--headache addled mind scrambling for some feasible way that they could all leave together. A secret escape route, or a super weapon of some type, or...or...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few minutes of silence, he comes to the hopeless conclusion that there isn’t one. Dr. Kleiner’s right about his injury; if an open wound like that were to come into contact with the burst sewage pipes, the infection would render it deadly. The health stations scattered around the facility only carry morphine, and he isn’t even sure about the condition of said stations in the first place. Black Mesa has been rocked to its foundations and is falling apart at the seams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For that reason, he knows he has to go quickly--lest it all falls down while they’re still inside. He admits his defeat by lowering his head and nodding curtly. He doesn’t like it one bit. He kneels, and places a hand on Dr. Kleiner’s shoulder. The older man looks up at him with his usual patient smile, though it wrinkles at the edges with tension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon points to himself, takes that hand to a point a few inches above him, then returns it to his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be right back. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He puts the same index finger against his lips, then pushes the hand flat against the thumb-side of his other fist. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I promise.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Kleiner takes his hand, and Gordon is glad its the one without blood. “I know you will, Gordon,” he says, “Don’t you be late again, you hear?” Gordon smiles. “Godspeed, Dr. Freeman. Godspeed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Eli breathes a heavy sigh. “Now, Gordon, follow me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turn around, and Gordon begins to follow Eli as he goes down the hall, but stops when he realizes how damaged the Chambers actually are. He hadn’t even realized it on the way in, with his focus primarily being on Eli and Dr. Kleiner.  There are splatters of blood everywhere; along the walls and on the floors, even dripping from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ceiling.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There are fissures, too, running meters long and some feet deep. Either created by the strain of something above, or the aftershocks of the Resonance Cascade, it’s anyone’s guess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The damage isn’t the only thing that catches Gordon’s attention. The actual ionization chambers themselves, small, glass domes with piping coming from above, are far more interesting. Gordon strays from Eli’s side, repressed curiosity now coming back full force, and examines their contents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two out of three domes contain a creature: a fat, skull-sized creature with two spindly front legs and fleshy pincers. Its back legs are tiny stubs. They seem to be lying down on their side, bodies rising and falling in tandem--they’re actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>asleep.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They snore like a man with a clogged nose. In his mind, he sees them as deformed dogs, or eyeless toads. They’re something straight out of a science fiction story. He’s read about aliens like these before, but to see one in person? It’s unlike anything he’s ever encountered before. But...surely these small creatures didn’t cause all of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>carnage?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doubts it, though the possibility that their invaders come in all shapes and sizes is not at all comforting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli sneaks up beside him, scaring the living daylights out of him.  “When Isaac and I made it in here,” he explains, “the dimensional breach brought those creatures and encased them in those chambers. Isaac’s got a fascination with one of them--I’m just grateful it’s in a glass jar--he named it...oh, what was it...Lamarr.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t blame Isaac. Under better, safer, and more controlled conditions, he would’ve loved to examine this little “Lamarr” with the two of them. As it is, they have to be getting a move on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli brings Gordon to the door, and the latter tries to ignore the dead body they pass by on the way. At least this time, it lies face down. Eli turns around to face him once they get to the retinal scanner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, I know the rest of the science team will be ready to help you Gordon.” He chuckles tiredly when Gordon looks skeptical. “I know, I know. They may seem like old coots--not as hip as your pal Eli--but trust me on this one; they’re going to need you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a good long look at Gordon, and the brightness in his eyes diminishes. “Gordon, if I don’t see you again,” he murmurs, “I just wanted you to know that... I’ve always considered you a part of the family. I still remember your first day here at Black Mesa, wet behind the ears, fresh from Austria. So new, you got lost and ended up in the maintenance shaft!” He laughs a real belly laugh, but it dwindles to a halt. “That isn’t to say we aren’t going to see each other again, right? Please, Gordon...if you make it to the surface, make sure Azian and Alyx are okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon nods firmly. He’d never let harm come to little Alyx or Azian. He signs </span>
  <em>
    <span>I promise </span>
  </em>
  <span>again and fumbles with his hands, before bringing Eli in for a hug. It’s hard to resist the urge to squeeze tight--it’s not the time to test the HEV suit’s capabilities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He curls his hands into the back of Eli’s lab coat and tucks his chin against the man’s shoulder. Eli pats his hair. It feels like hours that they stand there in the embrace, but Gordon knows they don’t have hours. He spends the few minutes trying to ingrain the warmth in his memory; the other reason being because he’s gotten so nauseous he needs someone to lean on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, he lets go. Eli leans down and activates the retinal scanner. A small </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep </span>
  </em>
  <span>sounds and the machine accepts the scan, opening the doors to the observation room. Gordon doesn’t turn around when he goes--he walks backwards through them, until they close, separating him and his friends once more. Eli puts a hand on the glass, and nods solemnly. This is his mission. It’ll be dangerous.  He’s a highly trained professional, as it says on his record. It’ll be a breeze for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Highly trained professional, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even with the doubt that begins to blossom in his mind, he pushes it away. Not only will this be a dangerous mission, it’ll be a learning experience. Everyone is counting on him; he can’t afford to mess up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli takes his hand away from the glass, and turns to go, but he hesitates. He looks at his hand, eyes widening by a fraction. Gordon keeps his gaze on the bloody handprint on the window. Eli had run his hand through Gordon’s hair; the latter wonders why he hadn’t felt the brush of his fingers against the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli mouths his name, but Gordon has already turned around.</span>
</p><p>--</p><p>[SUBJECT: GORDON]<br/>
[STATUS: Under observation; please standby.]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One more chapter to go until...well, a pretty cool thing, if I do say so myself. thank you all for reading so far!! it really warms my heart that this little au has reached so far,,</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Lunch Break</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He must be a sight, Gordon muses. Sitting in the break room, bloody crowbar in one hand, lemon soda in the other. Hair frazzled and ponytail loose. Blood splattered and crusted on his face, and in his hair. </p><p>Just another day at Black Mesa.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gordon stands alone in the control room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a hard time convincing himself to take the next step; the two dead bodies that lay in his path aren’t exactly inviting. The spectrometer is still active and humming, though the sound is now quieter. The floor trembles--its mass is still being felt throughout the facility. He diverts his attention elsewhere and looks at the consoles on the wall; they continue their flashing and beeping, despite everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon examines their small labels. Though he had never been trained for emergency door override, he’s sure he can figure something out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right about to press something when the HEV suit hums, with a small, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Power, 6%,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> as some minor electrical beam passes by him. More and more waves of electricity, each growing in voltage higher than the last, circle around him. He’s caught in the middle of their field; which means, if he remembers his studies correctly, at some point he’s going to reach the highest charge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dives forward onto his stomach with a grunt as a beam shoots past his head. His ear burns slightly. He didn’t think he’d be laying prone again so soon, but he’ll just add it to the list of “Things that don’t Happen on a Normal Work Day”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The consoles on the wall shatter into a million glass pieces and wires. There goes his attempts to override the door. The shrapnel bounces off of his back. Gordon throws his arms up to shield his head, and through the crack in between his arms, he sees one beam strike and obliterate the door. That works. He crawls towards it and stumbles through. He traces his steps from this morning. Down the hall, turn left--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skitter backwards as one of those dog sized aliens lunges at his face! He runs around it, taking care not to slip on any of the puddles of water. He doesn’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a concussion. His heart thumps steadily in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next pair of doors slide open for him, and he emerges into another hall. He ducks and dodges lasers that have broken through from other chambers and are now roaming up and down the hall. Everything is red. If it’s not splattered on the walls and floors, it’s blaring six feet above him. That alarm is starting to get grating. He hurdles over fallen server cabinets. He keeps running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets to the end of the hallway, the doors refuse to open. There isn’t a retinal scanner, either. He considers kicking them down, because God knows the HEV suit is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>strong, but it only has so much power left. That Atlas stunt he had pulled earlier had sapped more than half of its reserve; three quarters, however, well spent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glint from the floor catches his eye, and when he bends down to examine it, he sees that it’s coming from a red crowbar. He looks up to see where it had come from. One of the maintenance vents hangs open, its grate swinging. He hopes whoever had dropped it had escaped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks the tool up. It feels cool in his hands--is it weird to say it almost feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls back, and swings straight at the bottom right pane of glass. A home run; it shatters, and he crawls through. He strides down the hall to the elevator. It should take him to the break room, and from there...well, not the tram, obviously. He’ll figure it out when he gets there. He presses the down button. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he thinks he hears exposed pipes somewhere above him, letting out steam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only realizes it’s the screams of five or six men when their panicked cries, the elevator, and the sound of grinding metal, plummet straight down the shaft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pillar of fire and smoke billows upward. The screams go quiet, only to be punctuated by a sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The impact rocks the floor and shatters the glass, causing Gordon to stumble back. No sound follows after. The men are no longer alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He killed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pales. His grip loosens, and the crowbar falls out of his hands; the clang sounds like it comes from somewhere far away. He didn’t know--he didn’t know! He should’ve looked first, or, or done </span>
  <em>
    <span>something.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He shouldn’t have, he should’ve--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon realizes he’s spiraling when he hears his ragged breathing. He covers his face, trying to get a hold of himself. It isn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known. He repeats that over and over as he grabs the crowbar from the floor with shaking hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues on and slips through the door. He doesn’t look over the ledge; he doesn’t want to see what became of them. He focuses on the red maintenance ladder welded to the wall and begins his climb. Gordon tells himself that the incident had been out of his control; it’s a vow, promising that he would never kill anyone, never, but as his hands shake even more with each rung climbed, he wonders if any of it, at all, is true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He deposits himself onto the ledge when he reaches it. He holds his head in one hand, and the crowbar in the other. The climb hadn’t been long, but the sudden halt of activity sends his head spinning. He pinches the bridge of his nose and reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes. He slowly rises to a standing position. Only a few more hallways to go until he reaches a health station. There’s every chance it won’t be working, but it serves another purpose as his next waypoint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for what he’ll do if he encounters more of these...</span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He’s got the crowbar; it’s not the most powerful weapon, but it’ll have to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crack of a gunshot splits the silence. Ringing erupts once again in Gordon’s ear; it’s so loud it’s as if the bullet had entered his head. It ricochets around his head and in his ears. He feels his mouth move, gasping, but he can’t even hear the pained breath over the ringing. He squeezes his eyes shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His foot touches air. Terror forces his eyes open. His heart and stomach fall back against his spine. He shoots his arms out, but with one hand occupied with a crowbar, it’s futile. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not like this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks to himself, one last time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not like this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a funny thought. Not once in his life did Gordon ever think about the way he would die--not the circumstances, nor the method. It had never crossed his mind, even if he works for one of the most dangerous research facilities in America--a title it’s earned even more so now. An hour earlier, he had thought he had died in the test chamber. Thirty minutes ago, he had thought it would be any number of aliens that would kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falling down an elevator shaft, mere moments after he had caused the deaths of some five or seven men in the same way? He couldn’t save them. But, even now, he can’t make his peace with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringing subsides into a blissful silence. Then, that silence is taken up by a storm of heavy boots. Something--someone--grabs the neck of the HEV suit and yanks him forward. He staggers, falling against whatever it is that had saved him. Gordon takes a few deep breaths, trying his best not to vomit. He would’ve been a great astronaut, had it not been for his motion sickness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Freeman.” The voice startles him. “Boy, you don’t look so good.” He leans against whatever or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoever</span>
  </em>
  <span> this thing is. It feels like a padded vest.  He just needs to stay still while he comes down from the motion sickness. A hand takes the hair out of his face. The glove that the hand wears feels like a soft cotton as it brushes against his forehead. “Glad I caught ya. You could’ve gone fallin’ to your death!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropped g’s, in that Southern drawl...Why does that voice sound familiar?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hold on a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The HEV suit has about three layers to it--the suit itself, comprised of another three layers, so six, in total, the ventilation undersuit, and the mechanical compression undersuit. When Gordon looks up, and sees Security chief Calhoun, turquoise eyes brighter than a pair of headlights, with a small, reassuring smile, it’s safe to say all six, or seven, if Gordon’s skin is to be included, layers are scared right off of his skeleton. His heart follows, leaping out of his chest, and he swings the crowbar instinctively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, the human body doesn’t play well when it’s terrified shitless and coming off of an adrenaline high; add motion sickness on top of that and Gordon keels over. Calhoun easily ducks. Gordon splutters, straightening. He knows his jaw has hit the floor, but he doesn’t have enough brain power to fully process the action to close it. The security chief looks at him from where he stands amused, not at all perturbed by the fact that he had almost gotten his head taken off. In fact, he looks entirely relaxed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> His white shirt is as pristine as it had been hours ago, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, as per usual. In contrast to everyone else Gordon’s seen, Calhoun looks like he had just strolled in fresh from the laundromat. A single stray strand of hair that falls against his forehead is the only sign of any toil on the man. Even his bulletproof vest is in perfect condition. Not a speck of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s glad Calhoun is safe, really, he is--but he looks exactly as Gordon had seen him earlier that morning. Gordon’s covered in more blood and concrete powder than metal at this point, so it just doesn’t add up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, doc,” Calhoun says, offering him his hand. “Not to rush ya or anythin’, but we gotta get goin’.” He takes the hand and hurriedly gets to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brushes himself off, ears and cheeks alight with embarrassment. He looks everywhere where Calhoun isn’t, but even in his peripheral vision, he can see that damned carefree smile. The man had taken the hair out of his face. It’s such a small, insignificant action, Gordon shouldn’t be so flustered by it, but he can’t help himself; Calhoun didn’t have to do it, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He awkwardly shuffles his feet before dropping the crowbar. He cringes at the sound it makes. He rushes the sign for </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>and launches into the next sentence, avoiding eye contact entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How did you escape?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He signs, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Survivors?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun doesn’t respond at first; the only inclination Gordon has that Calhoun had heard him at all is his lazy smile growing a fraction wider. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m real sorry ‘bout the gunshot scare--” It’s heartfelt, and it makes Gordon’s flutter--”didn’t think you could kill that thing with that piece a’ metal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks around, and for once there’s something other than content in those eyes; there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>caution. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“There are things to be escaped, Dr. Freeman,” he adds, “Better get to escapin’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon tips his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Better get to escapin’. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Those words are missing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he just can’t put his finger on it. He remembers his manners. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, for saving me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he jabs a thumb behind him at the elevator shaft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No thanks needed. Anyhow, you’re gonna need something a little sturdier than that crowbar there.” He gestures to the tool in question. “My officers on the blue shift carry the Black Mesa standard--I don’t doubt that a few of them have died. They won’t mind you takin’ their gun. As you know, desperate times call for desperate measures, Dr. Freeman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have you seen Michael?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he signs. He knows the less than friendly rivalry between the two, but Calhoun is the only other man who would know. Calhoun adjusts his tie, and the knot loosens slightly. The man tilts his head this way and that, jaw tight and grin wide, teeth glinting. Gordon catches himself watching, and he glances away, ears red. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>the time to be gawking. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamnit, Dr. Freeman, get a hold of yourself!</span>
  </em>
  <span> his thoughts scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s...” Calhoun shrugs. “...</span>
  <em>
    <span>hanging</span>
  </em>
  <span> in there. Right as rain.” He doesn’t elaborate. If Calhoun is trying to be ominous, he’s going to get top marks. “You’ll see him soon. I guarantee it.” Gordon starts to sign, but the chief cuts him off. “Good luck, doc. Remember what I said. I’m gonna go back the way you came, see if I can’t round up any more of the science team.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun stops to put a hand on his shoulder, looking him right in the eye. “Take care of yourself, Dr. Freeman,” he says in a low voice, a voice that sends shivers down Gordon’s spine, “You’re going to save quite a lot of people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon’s hands fall to his sides, his questions having been evaporated by the heat that crawls up his neck. He watches and listens to Calhoun’s heavy, fading footsteps and the jolting of the rungs as the chief climbs down the ladder and disappears. He sighs shakily, shoulders slacking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re going to save quite a lot of people. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If he can save them at all; he has no doubt Calhoun will see what he had done. He hopes the chief will be able to accompany Eli and Kleiner to safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon ventures around the corner with caution. He tenses when he sees the thing Calhoun had shot down. The hole is still smoking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wears what used to be a science team member’s uniform; the ends of its lab coat are shredded and bloody. Roving upwards, Gordon takes note of its long, mutated fingers, and for a second he doesn’t believe this </span>
  <em>
    <span>monster </span>
  </em>
  <span>had once been human, because human appendages aren’t supposed to stretch and curl in this manner. Its hands have grown into four talons. The skin of the forearm has turned grey--decomposing rather quickly. The front of the shirt is wet, as the now useless internal organs burst through the skin and press against it. He shudders. It’s a cadaver, that’s for sure--it just looks too eerily alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of a head, the body sports one of those creatures Gordon had seen in the Ionization Chambers like a hat. The face, if it even is still there, is unrecognizable. Perhaps it’s better that he doesn’t know what it looks like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath. The science team is counting on him. He’ll do what he always has for them; he’ll be their heavy lifter. He continues onward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monsters come towards him from the end of the hall, shambling and groaning. Each of them sports the alien on their shoulders. He doesn’t recognize them, either; he can’t make out what’s on their grimy ID cards. He takes a deep breath. There’s no other way past this. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get up close and personal. No gun--no chance avoiding what has to be done. Gordon levels the crowbar, aiming for their heads--and swings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for his vow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon feels the strength of the hit vibrate through his arms; the </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch </span>
  </em>
  <span>of bones breaking fuels his adrenaline more. Blood, both human and alien alike, splatters onto the front of the HEV suit. There are only two of them, but with how many times Gordon swings, how many times the crowbar crushes its mark into dust, it feels like there’s a crowd of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence afterwards is unbearable. He wipes his gloves off of on the pauldrons on his thighs. A drop of blood drips down his cheek. He steps over their bruised and smashed bodies, keeps a tight grip on his weapon--it’s his only anchor, now--and moves on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He retraces his steps back to the break room. More bodies, though some are fortunate enough to have remained human. The microwave has gunk all over its window. The smell of burning hair and sewage fills the room. Trash cans are overturned, as well as chairs. The table is splattered with a great deal of blood. The black and white tiles are invaded by red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon, despite the circumstances, goes up to the vending machine. Some of the guards on the blue shift had taught him how to hit the machine just right that it dispenses free soda. He takes a wack at it. With a hiss and a clunk, the machine dispenses his prize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Power: five percent,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” the HEV suit warns him. He grimaces. He’ll have to find a charging station soon. With the lights and the electrical grid going haywire, it’ll be a miracle if he finds one intact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans down and takes the soda. Surprisingly, it’s still cold to the touch. He pops it open and takes a sip, leaning against the machine. The chilly, sweet syrup makes him feel a little better; it’s some kind of lemon soda. He grunts; his headache’s coming back full force. He sits down against the vending machine, nursing the soda, hand in his head as he takes slow sips. It probably isn’t the best idea to drink a sugary soda whilst coming down from an adrenaline high, but he’s too sapped to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must be a sight, Gordon muses. Sitting in the break room, bloody crowbar in one hand, lemon soda in the other. Hair frazzled and ponytail loose. Blood splattered and crusted on his face, and in his hair. Just another day at Black Mesa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just another day where, hours earlier, he had passed by the very same room. These people had been alive then, going about their day--now, he couldn’t put a name to their faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soda is gone before he knows it. He stands and puts the recycling bin upright again, and tosses the can inside. The scientist sees no reason why he shouldn’t recycle just because there’s an alien invasion. Any semblance of normalcy is welcome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cards a hand through his hair, taking great care not to brush his wound, and takes off his hair tie. He reties his hair with determination and newfound energy, thanks to the sugary lemon syrup. Michael would scold him for drinking that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It rots you inside out, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the old man would say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun had had a hunch about him seeing Michael soon. He hopes the chief’s gut feeling is true--otherwise, he’ll turn Black Mesa upside down just to find him. They might not be</span>
  <em>
    <span> best </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends, but Gordon sure as hell won’t leave him behind. Not him, Kleiner, or Eli. Calhoun seems to be able to take care of himself. He won’t have to worry about him--hopefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re his friends, and he’ll make sure they all get out of this alive. That’s his job--to do the heavy lifting. Unfortunately, it’s been his job since his start at Black Mesa. He had arrived with so much hope, fresh from his leg in Austria, only to be told he was to carry and sort samples in the backrooms. Carrying boxes and prying open crates--perfect tasks for an MIT graduate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he really tries, Gordon can pretend that this task assigned to him--smashing alien heads in, being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hero</span>
  </em>
  <span>--is just more menial labor. Maybe then it will feel normal. Maybe then the guilt and the blood of his coworkers won’t stain his conscience any more than it does the HEV suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back at the vending machine. He has to resist the urge to wack it again for another drink; he won’t be able to fight properly if he has his hands occupied. With a disgruntled sigh, Gordon goes back the way he came, and to the opposite hall to the locker room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Locker doors hang open, their possessions tossed out onto the grimy floor. Some doors had fallen, or had been ripped, from their hinges and they now lay on the floor. The few name plates that are still somewhat intact are bloodied. Bodies are draped over the benches. Gordon can’t tell what did them in; they’re far too mutilated to pinpoint an exact cause of death. The lights in the locker room hum without a single flicker--electricity is better in this area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the reason he goes to the health station around the corner with high hopes, and despite the circumstances, smiles when he sees that its red light is on. The morphine vials are thankfully intact. He pops the jack from the HEV suit’s chest plate and plugs it into the station’s port. He inputs his clearance code--</span>
  <em>
    <span>0-1-1-6</span>
  </em>
  <span>--and leans his back against it as he waits for the morphine to transfer. He mimics the machine’s pumping sound under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crosses his arms and leans his head back. He could really go for that soda right about now. He has no time to go back for it. He’s got to make it to the tram; should it be functional, it’ll take him straight to Sector B. From there, a few line transfers then he’s topside. That is, of course, if the system is working. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The subject of tram lines brings him back to Calhoun. The last time he had seen the chief, he had been leaving Sector C. Gordon can only think of two places he’d go to: the Administrator’s office, and the surveillance room. Calhoun rarely eats in the cafeteria, and Gordon never sees him in the dorms. Gordon doesn’t know the surveillance room’s exact location, as he’s only ever heard passing rumours about the room. Such rumours as that there are secret entrances all over the facility, to explain why Calhoun’s able to be at the site of an emergency only a few minutes after its called in. Gordon doesn’t believe a lick of it. Secret entrances? Come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The Administrator’s office is located on the highest level of the Black Mesa, right next to the training facility. Trams usually come around ten minutes at a time, so Calhoun must’ve waited on the platform for another ten minutes for the next one. He would’ve been on his way to the Administrator’s office sometime during the Cascade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So why had he been there, ready to save Gordon from falling to his death?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should’ve been stuck somewhere between Sector C and Sector B. Even if the system is online now, it hadn’t been online then. There’s no feasible way that the tram system would’ve come back online in time for Calhoun to return to Sector C; and even if it did, why would he go </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span>? All of this is based on the mere </span>
  <em>
    <span>assumption </span>
  </em>
  <span>that the tram had come back online at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Calhoun </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>use secret entrances; it isn’t such an improbable theory, given thought. Extravagant and imaginative, it may be, but at this point Gordon wonders how much he doesn’t know about Black Mesa--how much he doesn’t know about Security chief Calhoun, or even Michael.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his thoughts begin to slow and blur around the edges, he thinks at first it’s because he’s remembering Calhoun’s touch. When his brain turns to cotton, Gordon recognizes that it’s the morphine working its magic. He hadn’t even felt the prick of the needle in his neck. Good. It should last him for a few hours, until he’s able to patch his concussion up properly. He closes his eyes. His bones weigh heavy with exhaustion. He slides down onto the floor with a small exhale. His headache is nothing more than a pleasant buzz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a few minutes’ break, and then he’ll move on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wants that soda.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>[SUBJECT: MICHAEL]<br/>[STATUS: IN TRANSIT]</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this is the last chapter of this batch, so please sit tight until the next slew of chapters! as always, you can find extra content at https:/security-chief-calhoun.tumblr.com!</p><p>see u next time! you can also check out https:/mail-me-a-snail.tumblr.com if u want to yell at me for this chapter ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Invitation to Transmit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When yet another cold drop of sewage drips from the pipes above and slips down the back of his shirt, he groans in frustration. Pros and cons, Agent Michael, pros and cons. It’s a good game to play to keep his mind off of his doubts. It’s hard, however, to weigh such things when both are equally as ghastly.</p><p>What’s worse: the rotting stench of decomposing garbage, or the cold, slimy sludge that’s trying to pass itself off as water he’s submerged his (rather expensive, mind you) leather shoes into? </p><p>No amount of technicalities and mental arguments can make either pleasant.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Major TWs for the following: emetophobia (vomiting) and strangulation. I hope I didn't keep y'all waiting too long :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sector C’s maintenance shafts are...less than ideal. The smell is abysmal, and every turn looks the same. It’s only Michael’s luck that he’s got a good memory for directions. According to the faded map that had been on the wall by the sewer’s entrance, the next maintenance ladder will spit him out into Sector C.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only reason Gordon </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be in Sector C would be because he’s making his way topside. That’s a more comforting thought than his worries. Gordon, Dr. Vance, and Dr. Kleiner should’ve made it to the surface by now; he knows how much Gordon values them as colleagues. The man would never leave them behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When yet </span>
  <em>
    <span>another</span>
  </em>
  <span> cold drop of sewage drips from the pipes above and slips down the back of his shirt, he groans in frustration. Pros and cons, Agent Michael, pros and cons. It’s a good game to play to keep his mind off of his doubts. It’s hard, however, to weigh such things when both are equally as ghastly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s worse: the rotting stench of decomposing garbage, or the cold, slimy sludge that’s trying to pass itself off as water he’s submerged his (rather expensive, mind you) leather shoes into? No amount of technicalities and mental arguments can make either pleasant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even after twenty minutes of walking, there’s always something new around the corner to disgust him, be it last week’s awful batch of cafeteria food or a rat-infested grate. The latter creatures thrive in their own little colonies around the cafeteria food. Michael admires their tenacity, but he’d rather they live elsewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only pro in this situation Michael can think of is that the “water” in the canals is flowing. Had it been still water, Michael would’ve had freckles of mosquito bites. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent had rolled up his pant legs before stepping into this murky river--he had paid a good sum of money for this suit. Call him conceited, but it’s practically his uniform, and he’s not about to tarnish it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Officials higher up on the ladder had once told him that, “What’s important is not the suit, but the man who wears it.” He believes that philosophy wholeheartedly, but it doesn’t hurt to feel comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His suit has a nice twenty thousand dollar price tag attached to it; he’d say he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>than comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He, however, has loosened his tie and taken off his jacket, in favor of tying the latter around his waist. It’s one thing to wear a uniform--it’s another to slowly broil in your sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least his socks aren’t getting wet. Astronaut cats float happily in the expanse of their woolly black space. It’s wonderfully tacky. They’re not his top pair; usually he’d wear the ones with beakers, by way of celebrating what had supposed to be a successful test. It’s funny. Maybe his socks are a premonition. Wouldn’t that be something?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His very favorite pairs reside in a briefcase back in the dormitories; his hall, or briefcase, of fame, one could say. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have used another Black Mesa branded briefcase to store his socks--he’s not planning on staying with the facility forever, especially </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it’ll be a hassle to take them out just so he can give the case back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Retirement’s looking like a pretty party compared to the hell he’s about to hear from the Department of Defense--scratch that, from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>President</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He groans internally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The briefcase he carries now has seen better days. Scorched and slimy, it’s hard to make out its identical Black Mesa logo. Nothing a little surface cleaner can’t fix. At least he packs light. Secrets weigh heavy on the conscience, but not on paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He coughs into his handkerchief--it’s a wonder the stench of the sewers hasn’t made him purge what little breakfast he had had this morning. When his handkerchief comes away, it’s speckled with blood. Fresh red raspberry drops, in stark contrast to the already fading blots from an hour and a half ago. He grimaces, folds it in half, and stuffs it back into his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael’s luck is holding out yet. He’s had the fortune of avoiding any more alien encounters. He can hear them, though, growling and rattling in the vents above him. As long as he doesn’t see another one of those four eyed monstrosities, he’ll be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very few things make Michael afraid--spend a little over a decade in the business and any agent will grow a pair. But that thing that he had seen in the laboratory? It had brought something new to the game. It had brought information--a rare currency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given that he was about a few inches from death, at the time, he hasn’t given it much thought. He hasn’t given his memories much thought, either, not since the incident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The morphine Black Mesa produces is a potent painkiller</span>
  <em>
    <span> and</span>
  </em>
  <span> hallucinogenic. It’s why the medical officers strictly administer it in small doses. When they had fixed him with a straight drip of the stuff, right after his incident, his thoughts had quieted. He had slipped away without a care. The morphine brought about dreams--now that he thinks about it, they might’ve been more than a sleeping mind’s imagination trying to comfort him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he had seen then is not unlike what he had seen in the eye of that alien--except this time, he’s awake. He’s sure it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michael had seen endless skies. Spires reaching up above. Splotches of red, green, then yellow. Then, nothing. His dreams would fall into a faceless turmoil, from which he’d wake up in a sweat and with a pounding headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those short, few seconds he had seen had been drippy oil paintings, with colors too stubborn to get into their places. He’d get a headache with every attempt to reach further beyond the black veil that would punctuate his dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he had just stopped trying. He had let the seconds go, and sat in the quiet until he had woken up. Accidents happen in his line of work; he’s learned that there are things, people, he can leave behind. Up until a half hour ago, he had believed things would go back to normal, that they would advance science, what not. Beaker socks and all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all things to look him in the eye--it had to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, for now, he hasn’t seen it again. There’s another pro.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops at a crossroads. Michael puts a hand to his chin. What direction had that map said? Straight down tunnel E23, then...oh, yes, take a left, into tunnel F30. The tunnel to his right would’ve led him towards Sector B’s disposal canal, which would be leaps and bounds from his destination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The canal and him separate, for which Michael is grateful for. The smell, however, lingers. He trudges down the left tunnel. A water pipe runs alongside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael hears roaring. It’s loud and tumultuous, reverberating all around him. At first, his imagination runs wild and conjures up some great, unseen alien that’s charging towards him. He stops, and idles for a few moments. The roar comes no closer, nor does it falter. He lets out a breath, and continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Machinery is his next guess. The sound reminds him of afternoons at Aperture--most notably in the gel factory. The numerous gel pumps had sounded almost exactly the same. He remembers being in awe the first time he had seen the white, blue, and orange gels go up and down the pipes that went all around the facility. The hydraulic presses and pumps had been a spectacle to behold. Of course, there had been...</span>
  <em>
    <span>incidents</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moon rock concentrate having been Mr. Johnson’s fixation at the time, it’s a wonder why more Aperture Employees hadn’t gotten sick. Then again, at the time, there hadn’t even been a handful working in the gel factory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter what happens here in Black Mesa, he is glad to have avoided the same slow decline Mr. Johnson had suffered. With his bloody handkerchief, however, Michael wonders if he speaks too soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rusted grate lies at the end of the tunnel. Between the bars, Michael can see that the sound isn’t coming from machinery. It’s not gel, either--it’s a waterfall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jade green water descends like a curtain from the maw of a granite pipe lengths above. A river rushes by him. Rusted handrails line the platform. They’re cold to the touch. Michael watches as a box careens down the waterfall. It smashes into bits the moment it hits the water. Blue barrels, too, though their discolored, warped plastic makes them look green, follow. They land safer, and are whisked away by the current. He shrugs on his jacket.</span>
</p><p><span>The river flows from right to left. To his right, along the wall, are sturdy lead pipes marked with yellow letters that say </span><em><span>GAS MAIN. </span></em><span>Gas mains are nasty business. One scratch and the whole thing goes up in flames.</span> <span>They lead his eye to a platform a level above--presumably the tunnel he had forgone. There’s a maintenance ladder on the platform.</span></p><p>
  <span>The ground lilts sideways out from under him. He stumbles, arms flailing. He rights himself, hastily adjusting his tie. He looks up as he hears a thunderous split--followed by a scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chunks of the ceiling come raining down. They fall into the river, one after the other. A man--a security guard, by the shiny helmet--pops out of the water, arms flailing. He opens his mouth, to cry for help maybe, but he’s already gone under. The current carries him away and, just as quick as the chaos had come, all is calm once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks once, then twice. He smooths down his lapels. The ceiling is crumbling. He can’t see much through the hole in it, but he surmises that it has to be part of Sector C. </span>
</p><p><span>He furrows his brow. Well, that’s not good. Black Mesa is falling apart at the seams. Sector C had been the very hypo-center</span> <span>of the explosion--</span><em><span>Oh.</span></em><span> He should’ve realized it sooner. His little worm of worry had been right; if Gordon is truly the MIT graduate his file says he is, he would’ve hightailed it out of Anomalous Materials.</span></p><p>
  <span>He’s about ready to hightail it himself--back into the tunnel and to Sector B. There, he hopefully catch up to Gordon. He stops when he sees a bright red maintenance ladder. He doesn’t have to jump hoops to figure out it’s going up towards Sector C.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the damage the sector’s infrastructure has sustained, there might be any number of things blocking his path to Sector B, but equal chance of the opposite. The transport system could’ve come back online, though his escape earlier casts a shadow of doubt on that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a gamble. The question is--where would’ve Gordon gone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael can the ladder up to Sector C, and risk wasting time and his personal safety, or go straight on towards Sector B, by extension the surface, and hope to God he’ll see Gordon there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pros, and cons, he thinks, pros and cons. One or the other will tip the scales; he just has to weigh them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sector B is the next area over, and there’s no doubt it had been similarly rocked to its core. It’s the Coolant Reserve Facility from there. At worst, his only environmental obstacle will be water. The aliens, of course, are a given. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sector C had received the most damage, being the origin of everything. The ceiling is enough proof of that already. He has a loose floor plan of Sector C in his head. The maintenance ladder behind him could lead him to any number of areas within the sector. Another gamble, yet again. He can only roll lucky so many times. Paired with the aliens that are popping up everywhere with no warning or pattern, it’s hard to push aside the risk factor with blind hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no way of pinpointing Gordon’s exact location. He’ll have to estimate. Gordon had been assigned to that chamber. He had probably still been there during the explosion; God forbid he’s still there now. Michael had heard the explosion prior to the tram shutting down. Between the tram system failing and Michael’s venture into the maintenance shaft, Gordon must’ve made his way out and forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The opposite has every chance of being the case, but for his own sake and wavering hope he won’t entertain the notion. Gordon </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> made his way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, Michael lingers still, eyes between the tunnel and the ladder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Uncertainty is messy, and is often the downfall of a good plan. Unfortunately, it’s rare that one has all the facts. Michael lacks a good many of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s made his decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent trusts that Gordon, despite his scrawny stature and naivety, had been proficient enough to escape. The Hazard suit is already a comfort; if he can’t fight, he’ll at least be safe. Should Michael make it to the surface first, he reasons that the military would find Gordon upon his request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Does Gordon even know how to use a gun?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael takes one last glance at the waterfall. It’s oddly the prettiest thing he’s seen in Black Mesa. He turns and grabs the bars of the grate. He rolls up his jacket sleeves, and lifts. He takes about two, three steps before he hears that chirping again. He pauses. It warbles through the tunnel; it’s getting louder. It’s not one sound. It’s about seven--eight? He can’t tell--of the same thing, chirping asynchronously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the scraping of claws against the steel piping. Then, he sees them. In surprise, he lets go of the grate, and it falls with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clang</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s no match for the pack. He stumbles out of the way as they charge it, bursting out of the tunnel like a flood. They stand at attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the same way the pipes had reminded him of the deep recesses of Aperture’s salt mines, the aliens remind him of its surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael had once enjoyed sweets. On the corner of so-and-so street (it’s been too long, now; he hardly remembers), there had been the quaintest little dinner. He regards it with fondness, now, but the pie--oh, how it had his </span>
  <em>
    <span>adoration.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers the raspberry slice on the pie plate. Carving out a piece with his fork, and watching those bulbous red berries fall out of the soft crust and bunch together. The sweet, viscous liquid that would bleed out onto his plate, marring it with its hue. All the more like blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he had gotten cancer, he couldn’t stand the taste. It had become too sweet in his mouth; a single bite had felt like it would rot his teeth. The taste would always linger, turning slowly into a bitter acid. Even after recovering, his sweet tooth hasn’t returned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These creatures remind him how much he doesn’t--shouldn’t--miss the bleeding pie, or its diner. Where their muzzles should be is a gaping hole filled to the brim with a cluster of disgusting, bulbous red marbles. The aliens’ waxy, yellow-green skin can hardly contain them all. The scarlet pearls threaten to spill out onto the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They form a semi triangle around him, barricading the tunnel entrance. The one in the center moves forward, growling and skittering. It leans down on its front legs. Its body trembles. A leader, daring him to rise to the challenge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I,” Michael says, adjusting his tie. “im-agine you’re not here for...a treat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pack’s leader twitches. It chirps, then curls in on itself. It warbles, little green body shaking. The sound descends in waves, louder and louder, until it becomes shrieking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael’s hands fly to his ears. The sound slips through his fingers, and curl around his eardrums. The agent squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth moves by itself; his howling is nothing compared. His back smacks into railing. He grunts, and opens his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The creatures push forward. He fumbles for the gun in his jacket. He slides open the chamber; five bullets exactly. He’ll have to get creative. His attention flies to the gas main pipes; either he climbs them like a staircase, or he skirts around the aliens and back into the tunnel, thus inviting them to a chase. The only problem is the grate--they’d be on in him in an instant before he could open it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gas pipes lead to another ladder. It’ll be quicker. If he can get up to it, it should deter the aliens from following.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A brave alien from the ranks scrabbles and leaps onto him. It shoves the smell of blood against him. Michael yells in surprise, and instinctively presses the gun to its side and fires. It whimpers, stumbling away. It’s not dead yet. Four bullets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands, quickly inspecting his suit. No blood. Good. No more firing blindly. He has to save ammunition. He doesn’t give them time for a standstill--there’s none he can spare. He swipes his briefcase from the floor as he runs. He dashes to the railing and hops over. The first gas pipe groans with his weight. Michael draws in a breath. The current moves quickly below him. Should he fall...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hazards a look at the platform. The dogs are scrambling over each other to get over the railing. He has some time before they’ll be able to. He finds chips in the wall’s bricks where he can. It’s hard enough to balance with one hand while his suitcase swings in the other. He tests the next pipe, before stepping up onto it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael dares another glance at his pursuer’s progress. Three have made it onto the first pipe--not the leader, however. Grunts. They scramble over each other. One slips, and takes two with it. They fall into the current, their yelps fading as they are whisked away. Better them than him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two remain; they keep up the chase. The first hops onto the pipe. It wobbles along the length; its three legs aren’t made for balance. It slips, its hind leg and lower torso caught in the space between the pipe and the wall. The second alien tries its luck. It lands rather steadily. The first whines to the other as it scratches at the pipe in an effort to free itself. The latter ignores its cries for help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only has eyes for Michael. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael grits his teeth and continues. Only three, four more steps to go. The pipe groans again, but it holds. It has to. The dog is persistent. The one struggling, even more so. Its claw scores the pipe’s surface--one scratch could lead to a puncture. A second more for a spark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent sucks in a breath. He must move faster. As fast as one can with a briefcase. He grabs a chip in the wall when he nears the last pipe. Before he can pull himself up, the alien grabs a hold of his ankle. He yelps. He shakes his leg, cursing, but the damned thing won’t let go. Well, fine, if it wants a fight, it’ll get one. Michael has no hands free for his gun, so he chooses the next best thing: his briefcase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alien takes a few good whacks before it, with a whimper, falls into the river. He watches its body fall. He hears the sound he’s been dreading--the decisive </span>
  <em>
    <span>pchunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a broken pipe. The alien struggles harder, spooked by the sound, not realizing what it has done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a dime shaped hole under its claw. With each score, a spark across the lead pipe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Son of a--” Michael growls, and clambers onto the last pipe. He throws himself onto the railing of the platform, throwing a leg over it. He grabs the maintenance ladder. The handle of his briefcase automatically goes in between his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the warmth before he sees the fatal spark. Everything erupts in ringing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a while before he feels the fire on his arm. His nerves snap at him. The sudden sensation jolts his eyes open. A smoldering piece of rubble fries his skin. He hisses into his briefcase as it sears into his skin through his watch. He flails his arm this way and that. The stone, eventually, gives way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His ears and lungs are rattling. He coughs, and spits into the river. It’s not proper conduct to spit just anywhere, but as it is he’s tired of the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. The round, stone-shaped burn is nasty--the skin is red, raw, and shiny. His watch--it’s devastation. The leather strap is cracked. The watch face itself has no glass to speak of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it had been the watch, and not the suit. That would’ve been a stone-shaped hole through $20,000 wool. It’s only a $7,000 dollar watch. No big deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ladder is off its hinge; it creaks, like it might fall if blown with a strong enough gust of wind. He pales. Michael makes a slow, gentle climb. With each rung passed, the ladder jolts minutely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One rung away from the door. He just has to reach the knob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once his hand closes around the knob, and turns, the ladder gives way. Michael’s stomach falls out of him and he pulls himself forward and through the door. He lays there, shoulders heaving. His hands shake. After a minute, he grabs his briefcase from his mouth. He licks his lips, then stands. He hazards a look outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where the gas pipes had been is now a smoldering pile of debris. The tunnel’s platform is nowhere to be seen. The entrance itself is crumbling, but it’ll hold. The grate’s taking the brunt of the debris. The rubble is long gone, as are the aliens, taken away by the current. The ladder is intact. A few missing rungs, but climbable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smooths back his hair, tightens his tie. Another narrow escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns away and finds himself in yet another maintenance shaft. It’s a much longer hallway. The faded paint along the wall says he’s now in Sector B. He starts walking, stopping only to wash his burn in a sink. The cool water puts his mind at ease. He rolls his sleeves down. He makes a mental note to bandage it later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the hallway, the light starts to dim. Here, he and the river of filth unite once more. There should be floodlights here, leading the way. They must’ve broken. Michael stares headlong into the darkness, mouth pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t exactly have a flashlight on his person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he’s contemplating going back, he sees it: a flicker of light. Blinking at the end of the tunnel. Not too bright, but still--</span>
  <em>
    <span>blink, blink, blink</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It has that telltale hum of a lightbulb. With renewed confidence, he takes a deep breath and steps into the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light flickers; it’s almost like Morse code. For his own amusement, he tries translating it. It all comes out as balderdash, nonsense vowels and consonants. Anything to keep his mind off of the dark around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The darkness of the medbay had not been pleasant. Even less so with his one frequent visitor. All he had wanted was to go back to a normal life--some secrets are best kept in ink. What had it mattered to him, anyway? They had gotten the sample. End of story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet...Michael finds himself dissatisfied. It’s one thing to accept his memory loss; it’s another to admit defeat and eat up the lies the mutt and his master are trying to feed him. Had this invasion not happened, he would’ve gone through with his original plan. Then, he could forget all about Calhoun and Breen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> happened--and there’s no changing the fact that it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alien hadn’t brought the memory into focus, not exactly. It’s the same colors, reds and yellows. It’s just now he knows what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is, </span>
  </em>
  <span>where in the memory he can place it. Its form is pressed into his mind. He knows now that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those words he’d hear in his dreams: </span>
  <em>
    <span>They were in </span>
  </em>
  <span>our </span>
  <em>
    <span>way. Our.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>So they really </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> gone to Xen, and those aliens had caused them trouble, not at all unlike the scientists in that laboratory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The yellow pigments--of course. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s blood. It’s alien blood! The alien had been injured in his memory--why? They, he and Calhoun, must’ve fought back. He coughs, then wipes his lips with his handkerchief. That stingy copper taste again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had it been a bullet, then? Or a bludgeoning? Not a gash, no--it couldn’t have been killed by another alien. If he wants to entertain that notion, he’ll blame the alien who had given him his scars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Six, long wounds score his abdomen, side, and back, each slice about three inches in width. They had healed remarkably fast, but the pain had lingered. It never quite slept. Sometimes, the tallies would throb minutely, pulsating, like insects were trying to break through his skin. Goosebumps rise along his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other times, in the dead of night, it would </span>
  <em>
    <span>burn</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’d sear his skin so badly he’d wake up in a sweat. He’d lay there, paralyzed, unable to move because moving would only worsen it. It would last for minutes. It’d feel like hours. Once it would end, he would go to the tiny bathroom of his room, and spit into the sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would always be the deciding conclusion--the tangy blood in his mouth. He could’ve seen it as a comfort--a signal that it was over--if it hadn’t dredged up memories of clean, white sheets and heart monitors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d unbutton his shirt, sometimes, to see if his skin </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been seared; it would feel like it had. But all he would find would be those ugly, wrinkly scars stretched like roads on waxy skin. He couldn’t stand to look at them for long. He has his share of scars, from over the years; these six, however, are unlike anything his body’s ever been marred with. They carry no story, no daring assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head slightly; just thinking about it puts him on edge. Michael looks up and finds the light. It continues its skittish blinking, excited that he’s closing the gap. Michael expects more gibberish, but instead:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-.- .- / -.- -.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The international Morse code for: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Starting signal, invitation to transmit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone wants to talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That can’t be right. It must be the sewage fumes he’s inhaling getting to his head. The light keeps blinking its last message: an invitation to transmit. Nonsense. It’s just faulty wiring, that’s all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sinks back into his thoughts to stave off his growing uneasiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That first night in the medical bay, the first thing he had seen had been two, brilliantly turquoise eyes. He remembers that he had thought he had been dreaming still. A shriek had escaped his throat. He had wanted to run. To </span>
  <em>
    <span>escape. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hadn’t wanted those eyes watching him, not again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those eyes would watch him for the entire four or five days he had been in the medical wing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blink, blink, blink.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Invitation to transmit. Ready to receive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun had been his only visitor. His condition had been kept under lock and key from the science team; Gordon had thought it had been a cold. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ready to receive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the dog had been ordered to visit him by the administrator. Wallace would know exactly which of Michael’s buttons to push, ever since day one. Wallace, with that smug, conniving grin, and Calhoun, with those indolent eyes of his, always staring at something, but never quite focusing, always the yes-man, the yes-sir, right-away-sir.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wallace knows he doesn’t remember a thing. He must. But why, then, does he act like he doesn’t know what memory loss is? Why does he twist </span>
  <em>
    <span>momentary </span>
  </em>
  <span>into </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ll remember if you try </span>
  </em>
  <span>harder? Every interaction he’s had with Breen has contradicted another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael’s play at Wallace’s office had been weak. Wallace must’ve seen right through his confidential information act. The administrator must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>reveling</span>
  </em>
  <span> in knowing something Michael doesn’t. The agent knows the arrogant type all too well--has been dealing with them for fifteen damn years. He would’ve been free of the both of them by now had this been any other office day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wallace had told him one thing, however, the first time Michael had stepped out of the medical bay a healed man:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to Calhoun, he had been attacked in Xen by an alien, something powerful enough that not even several bullets could pop a dent in its hide. It had given him the scars. The concussion, too, supposedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>According to Calhoun</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That, right there, had been the first red flag, because it all comes down to the only other witness there that day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chief of Security of all people would know just how to dress his lies to make them more palatable--or plausible, he should say. Because how plausible is it that he had escaped with not a scratch on him, while Michael had lost </span>
  <em>
    <span>forty percent</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his own blood volume, and then some?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One part of him screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>paranoia!</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it’s right. He has no evidence of any of these claims. Calhoun has never explicitly done anything to him. Nothing he can remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael knows the truth, however, no matter how many layers of thick black ink his memories are crossed out with, no matter how flimsy his evidence, and that is this:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> innocent. He is a conniving, lying </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Invitation to transmit</span>
  </em>
  <span>--the light repeats this message, over and over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael takes a breath. He swallows his bubbling anger. He says, out loud, “Dah, dit, dah.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Message received. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The light stops. He feels silly in the ensuing quiet. He wanders forward aimlessly in the dark as it continues its radio silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael, himself, is an unreliable witness. Wallace would know only what Calhoun told him. The gaps in his memory maddens him to no end. If he could just remember past that creature, to the moments after. If he can just push back the curtain, and find out what that...that </span>
  <em>
    <span>claw </span>
  </em>
  <span>had belonged to--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hacks out a cough, the back of his hand flying to his mouth instinctively. His breath rattles in his lungs. He clears his throat. Takes a breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On cue, the light comes back on. He perks up but before he hears its blinking hum, something groans to his right. There, another, to his left. In front of him. Behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is not alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickens his pace. Just a bit more. Just a bit more, and he’s out of here. Out of the dark. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get out of the dark.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>... -.- / </span>
  <em>
    <span>End of work.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A longer sequence, now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be seeing you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>-.-. / .-.. / </span>
  <em>
    <span>Station shutdown.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The light goes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he gasps. His shoulders tense. He can’t see--he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s childish, to be afraid of the dark--but he is. He’s terrified. He has been, since the incident. He’s swallowed his fear as best he could--the suffocating </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the emptiness--but it’s too much. Michael wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes it onto something dry, a platform. Stability. He scrabbles for a light switch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something closes around his neck--and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pulls.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His cry of shock comes out choked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scratches his neck, fingernails digging in, meeting flesh and pulling. But still it, whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>it </span>
  </em>
  <span>is, holds tight, still he wheezes--his feet leave the floor. Michael kicks and turns but the struggling makes it worse. His head pounds. Spots of light dance along the edges of his vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is another of those late nights; the searing pain. The air gone from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, it’s not one of those nights. The sensation finds origin elsewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a noose--</span>
  <em>
    <span>hands</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Closing around his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hard to breathe, hard to think.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What are you doing to me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark. The empty. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s felt this before.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The light strikes him in the eyes as it comes back on. His thoughts shatter into pieces. He isn’t thinking. He gets a good look at his strangler--he can’t process it. It is shapes and lines and adjectives and </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me go let me go let me go</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun--jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coughing. Gasping. His lungs won’t stay in his body. He’s swallowed water. Not water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. The taste of pennies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Liters, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Soaked into his gums. His lips. Tears spring to his eyes. His hands grip the edge of the platform. His knuckles are about to pop out of his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thought and consciousness trickle back into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What little lunch is in him doesn’t stay that way for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows it’s over when he feels himself shaking. When his throat is sour with bile. When the sewage that runs past is russet, instead of green.Michael falls onto his back. He grasps his chest. His head is pounding. His eyes are burning. He gasps for air. Even if the stench is unbearable, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>grateful </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the oxygen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands won’t stop shaking. He raises them to the light. The drops of blood barely stick out 0n the leather. He clenches them tightly. He has to breathe. One, two. In, out. Breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the black spots at the edge of his vision leave, he sits up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a whistling, slow exhale. His head is not only painful--it’s foggy. As if being strangled had throttled every thought out of it. It must’ve been nothing important, if it hadn’t stuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up. The alien is still there. He sees what it is, now. It resembles a long, fleshy mouth, suctioned to the ceiling. It droops uselessly. Its tongue, his noose, hangs limp. Had he been slower, he wouldn’t have had a head at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He touches his throat. It stings as he presses. He grimaces. He’s never felt such agony before, not even during those late nights at the dormitory. It hadn’t felt like those nights. It had felt like...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...He doesn’t know what it had felt like. His migraine is too powerful to dig through his thoughts and figure out what. It probably hadn’t been important. He probably had never felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whatever it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael looks up at the fluorescent light, which had once been his guide. Now, he only sees it as a traitor. Luring him into the alien’s snare like that--he had trusted it. It hums, and lights up the tunnel, as if to apologize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He promptly turns away from it, and to the maintenance door. On a chipped plaque above it, it says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sector B, Disposal Canal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>More sewers. At least it’s one more step towards Gordon--and hopefully away from those ceiling huggers. No wonder, really, why he had had a coughing fit. Being strangled lends to breathing issues, naturally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathing issues doesn’t mean he’s supposed to be coughing up </span>
  <em>
    <span>blood. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It can’t be a recurrence. It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wallace will not get that satisfaction of being right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there is always that small part of him, that small molecule of doubt--</span>
  <em>
    <span>what if it is?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his back to the sewers, grabs the doorknob, then pushes. Whatever he had forgotten, he’s bound to remember it later. What had it been, anyway? Something about...Ah, doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind his back, the light blinks: </span>
  <em>
    <span>See you later.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p><span>[SUBJECT: GORDON]<br/></span><span>[STATUS: ARRIVED</span>]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm so, so sorry Michael...but it had to happen! </p><p>As always, you can find some ~extra content~ on this AU's sideblog: security-chief-calhoun. I post little bits of lore tidbit, some asks, doodles...<br/>Feel free to look around! You can also contact me at mail-me-a-snail. </p><p>Next chapter, I hope you like dogs!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sound Check</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Black Mesa inexplicably becomes a dog park (and Gordon learns he is a dog whisperer), human words fall from alien lips, and our heroes are reunited at last.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Violence, gore, mention of vomiting.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sector C’s lobby is about as clean as one would expect. Corpses, and with that, blood. The alarm has since gone silent. Several of the monitors on the wall have bluescreened; others are broken and sparking.</p><p>The computer at the desk is in the same state. The guard who’s supposed to man the station is nowhere to be seen--he must’ve gone to look for survivors. After a quick search of the desk, he comes up with a pack of bubblegum and some loose change. No gun. The guard must’ve taken it. He shuts the drawer.</p><p>There’s a red button under the desk that’s labeled <em> TRAM_GATE. </em>Gordon presses it; if the tram systems are still working, it’ll take him to the surface. If not the surface, at least somewhere close enough. The gates shudder open, but only about half way. He ducks under them and emerges onto the platform.</p><p>He comes to a stop right at the platform’s edge. A few steps closer, and he’d plummet to his death. The tram bridge is halfway gone and its suspensions hang uselessly from the ceiling. The tram line is empty--in fact, the whole part of the facility out here is <em> quiet. </em>No siren. No sound of life. As if it’s been deserted.</p><p>“Gordon!” He hits his nicked ear with the butt of his palm. It must be the tinnitus acting up, but he could’ve sworn he had heard his name. A buzz in his ear, disturbing the silence.</p><p>However, there it is again.</p><p>"<em> Gordon </em>!” with a terrified urgency.</p><p>He follows the sound. A scientist, with a dirty lab coat and snowy white hair, hangs onto one of the thick suspension cords for dear life. Gordon jumps in surprise and signs, <em> Are you okay? </em> </p><p>He only realizes it’s a stupid question when the scientist scowls up at him. “Oh, don’t I look dandy?” His scowl quickly drops into horror as his eyes dart down to the nothingness below him.</p><p>Gordon can’t put a name to his face--he is sure, however, that he’s part of AM’s staff. The team from other sectors don’t have that scolding sneer about them.</p><p>Now isn’t the time for it. Gordon has a mission, and he intends to see it through. He squares his shoulders, and looks around. The bridge is teetering, and it won’t hold for long. It creaks, the groaning reverberating through the empty and wide tunnel.  The cords aren’t of any use. It'd take use of his full weight just to pull one from the ceiling.</p><p>But what he can do, he realizes, upon looking at his hand, is use the crowbar to pull the scientist up. It’s a tool, after all, and a weapon second. He wipes the alien blood from it with one glove. It slathers across the red metal, but that’s the best he can do. He crinkles his nose.</p><p>Gordon can’t say much for his upper body strength--and the HEV suit’s, for that matter, since it’s without sufficient charge. He grabs the remaining railing with his other hand, just to be safe. He makes sure his grip is tight. He gets on one knee, and holds the crowbar out.</p><p>The scientist squints up at him. His eyebrows arc in surprise, then recognition, and maybe something like reluctant admiration. “So, you really aren’t just a sample sorter, after all.” </p><p>Gordon, for the briefest of moments, considers leaving. He knows better than to expect praise without snide insult. He takes the remark in stride and wiggles the crowbar impatiently.</p><p>The scientist reaches for the crowbar. His fingertips barely brush the other end. He leans farther and farther away from the suspension, desperately grasping at the air. Gordon extends the tool out as far as possible, but he can only do so much without falling over the edge.</p><p>The scientist has to take breaks in between attempts; like the other members of the science team, he’s old. His other hand grips the cable. It whines with each tug.</p><p>What he doesn’t realize--it’s not until it’s too late that he does--is that a single suspension cable is not built for stress like this. Two, three, maybe--but not one. He’s no engineer. He wouldn’t have known.</p><p>Gordon looks him in the eye--and realizes it, too.</p><p>One moment, the scientist is there. The next, he’s gone. It happens in the blink of an eye, without a scream, but with the definite, and echoing sound, of a cord snapping. The sound is all around him, and then it, too, is gone. </p><p>Gordon sucks in a breath, and hears it rattle in his chest. He kneels there, frozen for a good few seconds, as if in memoriam, before it fully hits him. In shock, he stands, holding the crowbar at his side. </p><p>He had been right there. <em> Right there. </em> Inches away-- <em> inches. </em>His mission--he’s killed a great number of scientists than he’s saved. The elevator. The suspension cable. The thought does not sit right with him. </p><p>He’s in the lobby again; when had he walked back? He doesn’t know. Everything is mixing into one like he’s going cross eyed. The here and now, Michael would tell him, the here and now. Not what could’ve been. He blinks, and that haze doesn’t go away, but at least he can see. He has to blink continuously, otherwise his eyes become kaleidoscopes. </p><p>The tram line is a bust. Sector B is his next best option. He notices an open vent that he hadn’t before. He crawls through it. He’s surprised to see he can fit the HEV suit into such a crevice.</p><p>The room he enters is a mess of overturned server cabinets and shattered computer monitors. Perhaps it had once been a security station. He sees another vent in the left most corner of the room and a server cabinet turned ramp just under it. He clambers up and through the vent. He’s not a fan of rats, not since his first day at Black Mesa, but he feels an awfully lot like one.</p><p>Gordon falls out into another hallway with a grunt. Two offices are on either side of the hall. One with the lights still on, and the other pitch black. </p><p>His attention is caught by a loud, “<em> Ha </em>!” in the office with the lights on. He peers through the window’s blinds. A scientist stands triumphant over one of those fat little aliens. It’s been crushed by a filing cabinet. Another one is scurrying towards him, though he can’t see it. </p><p>Gordon smacks the window. The scientist startles and turns to him, but again he is too slow. The alien leaps onto the scientist’s head, smothering his screams, before he falls dead to the floor. A twitch here, and there. It’s better that it had been quick. Nothing to be done for it. Gordon doesn’t dwell on it too long. He pushes the shivers away.</p><p>He goes down the hall, hopping over a part of the ventilation shaft that’s fallen out onto the floor. <em> SECTOR B, COOLANT RESERVE FACILITY, </em>is plastered on the wall in blocky red letters, with an arrow helpfully guiding him forward.</p><p>The door to Sector B is in a sorry state. Most of its plexiglass is scattered on the floor. He can squeeze through the empty frames without a problem.</p><p>Ragged breathing fades into the edge of his hearing. He leaps out of his skin and swivels around, crowbar flying to action. His first thought is that it’s another alien. Then, he sees the blood.</p><p>A guard leans against the wall beside another health station. You wouldn’t be able to tell he’s wounded without the uniform standard powder blue shirt. It’s a cherry color, now, spreading in a Rorschach ink. The stain is barely visible on his dark vest. Gordon kneels beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder. Cold to the touch.</p><p>The guard’s eyes stay closed, and his head lolls onto his shoulder. He’s gone. His face is familiar. Dark hair, shorn to uniform standard, moles. Gordon’s attention drifts to the man’s holster. He lets a sigh of relief out through his nose. Desperate times call for desperate measures.</p><p>Gordon takes the holster, and clips it around his thigh. The gun’s weight is reassuring, yet much more daunting. Truth be told, they didn’t cover this in the Hazard Course.</p><p>The guard’s name doesn’t comes to mind. He becomes just another one of many security guards, virtually indistinguishable from the rank and file. Another black vest. Gordon presses his lips into a flat line. The rest of the science team might see them as fodder, but he’s known them as friends. Apparently, he doesn’t know them well enough.</p><p>He checks the gun to distract himself from the oncoming guilt, the guilt that he knows isn’t fair. Black Mesa standard, just like Calhoun had said. A clip with a good amount of bullets. It’ll deal a fiercer punch than a crowbar, that’s for sure. Bullets, however, only come in such a supply. He’ll hold onto the crowbar for now.</p><p>He squeezes through the broken doors and out into the next room.</p><p>The last thing he expects to hear is barking. A silhouette rushes past. He comes to a halt, hesitant. After a minute of inactivity, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he relents. Gordon moves toward the sound. Whatever is making the sound, it chirps and barks, and Gordon can hear its nails skittering across the floor.  </p><p>Something round and heavy, almost like a mini wrecking ball, hits him square in the chest and he falls back with a grunt. He looks up, and finds himself staring into twelve red, marble-like eyes. The alien growls and clicks. It looks like a dog. </p><p>It jumps off of his torso, hopping up and down. He sits up. It <em> is </em> a dog--a form of dog, at least--because Gordon’s all too familiar with the feeling of a dog barreling into him because it wants to play. </p><p>This alien is round and fat, about the size of an average dog. It uses its three legs to jump around in place. It nuzzles his shoe with its “eyes”, which are so bulbous and wet looking Gordon tries not to gag. Paired with the red mosquito eyes, its lime body and turquoise stripes make for a strange palette. </p><p>The alien even bows, in that submissive way dogs do. It really <em> does </em> want to play. Gordon raises his brows in bewilderment. </p><p>He brings his hands up to sign the word for <em> play </em>, but realizes he’s holding the crowbar, which is still stained with blood. At the sight of it, the creature growls and curls in on itself, shaking. Its growling turns into warbling that grows louder and louder, until--</p><p>His tinnitus goes off like a grenade in a minefield. Each reverberation is a jab into his skull. Instinctively, his eyes clamp shut. He vaguely registers opening his hands and pressing them to his ears. Every synapse in his brain becomes an echo chamber of the sound. </p><p>When he pulls himself out of the haze, teeth aching, he finds that the dog is gone. Gordon takes a shuddering gasp, steels himself through a full body shiver, and gives himself a minute to breathe. He coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The wound on his scalp is pulsating with his heartbeat. One, two, one, two.</p><p>He grabs the crowbar and gets up. He wobbles on his feet for a few moments. That lemon soda taste in his gums is beginning to get sickeningly sweet.</p><p>Come to think of it, he’s had nothing but coffee and soda today. The combined acidity alone would burn his throat if he vomited, so he tries his best to keep them down. Sector B may be a coolant reserve, but he doubts the water is potable.</p><p>Gordon shambles down the hall. He had been right about the warbling, that it had been a fear response. The dog must’ve been frightened by the sight of the crowbar. No doubt it had taken it as a sign of hostility--the way a cat shows its claws. He feels a shred of sympathy for it. It <em> is </em> a hostile alien, but it’s also just a wild animal, vulnerable in an unfamiliar environment, with unfamiliar predators.</p><p>Gordon emerges into a new room. Broken glass is scattered all over the floor. Several windows in the wall that look like enclosures are empty. </p><p>He stops short when he sees a trio of the aliens on the opposite side of the room. They turn to him, spines bristling. He raises his hands in a form of surrender. Their hostility grows, and they yip and bark. He looks at his hands. He swears under his breath when he sees that he’s still holding the crowbar.</p><p>Gently, and carefully, Gordon takes the crowbar and puts it on the ground. Against his instincts, he kicks it away and to the side. The trio give the offending weapon one last chirp of disdain, before turning their attention to him. </p><p>He smiles, then makes the sign for <em> play, </em>by holding each of his thumbs and pinkies out, surfer style, and shaking his hands. They stare at him for a few seconds, seconds that feel so tense Gordon makes the sign again, just to give his hands something to do. The motion seems to please the aliens. They pad over to him, and nuzzle his legs.</p><p>Gordon kneels to their height, and lets them sniff him all over. Though, he’s not sure if he can call it sniffing. They don’t seem to have snouts. They push each of their masses of marble eyes against the HEV suit. With cautious hesitation, he strokes one of their backs. It’s waxy and smooth, like taut rubber. It’s not entirely unpleasant. The alien, in question, falls over onto its side with a deep rumble; a kind of purring. He brightens.</p><p>The other two vie for his attention, and he gives it to them. They practically melt in his arms. No fur to ruffle or ears to scratch, but they seem to like whatever he’s doing. A belly scratch here, a rub where a cheek would be. </p><p>All at once, as though they are bonded, the aliens leap away from his touch. They stand at attention. He’s done something wrong. He starts to sign a hasty <em> sorry </em> but lets his hands drop when he sees their attention isn’t on him. They yip and bark at the bend in the hallway--or something around it. He gets to his feet, and moves through their ranks. They part obediently. He takes a peek around the corner.</p><p>The very same alien that had nearly deafened him shivers head to toe. The Lambda symbol on its side wavers. Gordon swears he can hear the Lambda symbol rattle in its black circle. The pitiful thing backs away as he gets closer. He frowns and stops.</p><p>A long time ago, when he had been just a kid, the Freeman family had had a Golden Retriever--her name had been Sputnik. His mothers had decided on the name for him; he had been too young when they had gotten Sputnik as a puppy. When Sputnik had done something wrong, she’d run away after being scolded to her sky-blue doghouse. She’d come back in during dinner with her tail in-between her legs. These aliens don’t seem to have tails, but Gordon can still feel its shame. It knows it did something bad.</p><p>He feels a pang of nostalgia, a pang so powerful it makes him smile, albeit a little sadly. Sputnik had broken a vase; the alien (in self-defense) had tried to kill him. It’s not the same thing by a long shot, but Gordon finds that this species understands compassion. It understands right from wrong--an animalistic scale of right and wrong, but nonetheless. Morals. It won’t be wise to make enemies out of them.</p><p>He extends his hand out, the universal sign for reassurance. To say that, <em> It’s okay. </em>The alien surveys it, and Gordon lets it, doing his best to be patient. He’s a little rusty, since Sputnik and the blue doghouse in Seattle had been so long ago.</p><p>The alien steps closer. Gordon encourages it with a minute nod. Finally, it pushes its face against his hand with a deep rumbling purr. The other aliens jump up and down, yipping excitedly. <em> He’s done it, he’s done it! </em> they seem to say </p><p>Gordon sits back down among them with their newcomer. He looks down at it. He strokes its back, cupping his chin with his other hand. He’ll need a name. Lambda feels too obvious, too much of the ownership going to Black Mesa.</p><p>The newcomer pauses its play to push at Gordon’s chest with his snout. That’s it. The name hits him like a truck. Sputnik is long gone, but seeing that even alien dogs want attention like she had, makes Gordon believe she never truly left. Sputnik had been a good girl; she would’ve gotten along with this pack just fine. </p><p>He spells <em> S-P-U-T-N-I-K </em> and gives the alien a firm pat. It yips, seeming to agree with its name. From this day on, the dog would be called Sputnik II. Gordon signs the phrase <em> Be a good boy! </em>repeatedly. He flaps his hands when he just can’t think of anything else to sign. </p><p>He might not live to see tomorrow, but he aims to enjoy these precious few minutes. He doesn’t have to have these aliens’ blood on his hands (or the crowbar). </p><p>He remembers the long, windy afternoon walks he'd take Sputnik on. The trouble that they'd get into--Gordon finds he's as good as climbing as he is because one has to be quick to scale the neighbor's backyard fence. Sputnik's favorite chew toy had been a <br/>tennis ball. These guys...Well, a chew toy might be a problem, but he has no doubt he'll think of something. Not collars, either. No necks to speak of. </p><p>His ideas aren't totally plausible, what with his mission being to rid Black Mesa of its invaders, but he can dream. He can make an exception. This is good. This is <em> good. </em></p><p>“Didn’t think you were a dog kinda person, Dr. Freeman.”</p><p>The voice jolts him out of his elation. It’s the last person he’s expecting to hear at the moment, for when they had last seen each other, they had parted opposite ways at the elevator shaft. Gordon looks up--and smiles.</p><p>Calhoun is leaning on the catwalk’s rail. He is as pristine as ever, and the harsh, buzzing light overhead only serves to make him look like a model straight out of a magazine. He has a sly smirk, a smirk that turns Gordon’s cheeks a rosy shade of red, and he waves with one gloved hand. His eyes, perfectly content, pass over the huddled mass, and stare directly at <em> him </em>. Gordon averts his eyes.</p><p>“Those mutts are takin’ a real likin’ to you.” Gordon is about to agree, though he doesn’t quite hear the affection in “mutt,” when he hears the pack erupt in snarls.</p><p>He spins around, and finds them bristling. They are now once again aliens, no longer dogs, nothing more than hostile invaders. In a state of instinctive hostility, they’ve sensed a predator. They growl and yip, backing away slowly, Sputnik II included. They’re <em> afraid. </em>Gordon steps forward to console them, hands held out placatingly, but they take steps back in turn. Calhoun’s gun is in his holster--they shouldn’t be like this.</p><p>Calhoun looks at them with half-lidded eyes and lax eyebrows. They hold this staring contest for a few moments. Gordon looks between them. It feels like hours. At last, with a skittish whine, the pack retreats, and runs away back the way Gordon had come. </p><p>Calhoun wins this round. Gordon stands alone below him, heart and outstretched arm sinking. He looks back at Calhoun with a frown. What is there to be afraid <em> of </em>? Is the smile unsettling? He’s never been unsettled by that grin.</p><p>The man shrugs, as if hearing his thoughts, then says, “I guess I’ve never been a dog person myself.” </p><p>Gordon stands and bends over to pick up the crowbar. It’s exactly where he had left it. Hold on a second--why isn’t <em> Calhoun </em>?</p><p>He shouldn’t be here. He can’t think of a plausible explanation for why he is. Gordon strains his neck, trying to see if Eli and Kleiner are behind him, but finds that the chief is alone. Calhoun had gone the other way, with the promise that he would escort them to safety. Even if they are hanging back while Calhoun scouts ahead, where had they passed that he hadn’t seen them? Where had they passed to have gotten <em> ahead </em>of him?</p><p>Just as he’s formulating the question, Calhoun turns to his left, Gordon’s right, and walks away. Gordon stands there for a moment, before he moves with a start. If Eli and Kleiner are right behind Calhoun, he’d like to know how they are--Kleiner’s wound is <em> bad </em>. Eli is fine, but that could be surface level. He’s worried, doesn’t Calhon know that he is? </p><p>He spots a door on the other side of the room. There must be a staircase, somewhere, to that catwalk. He finds a ladder where he needs it. He climbs up, crowbar in hand. Calhoun could take Kleiner’s weight easily, and so could Eli. The injured doctor’s probably all flustered. Stealing glances. The like. Alive, is what matters.</p><p>When he sees that Calhoun, that damned <em>handsome</em> son of a--by God he’ll give him such an earful (handful?) for not telling him about them, that Michael would be proud of him.</p><p>His worry evaporates into thin air when he sees that there is no door at the end of the catwalk. It’s just an empty corner.</p><p>Calhoun had been there, mere moments ago. He couldn’t have dreamt it. He hasn’t fallen <em> that </em> hard that he wants to see the man everywhere he isn’t.</p><p>He’s starting to believe in the prospect of secret passages. This one must be extremely well hidden, because there are no seams, hinges, or buttons. No keypads. The wall sounds solid when he smacks it. No matter how much he goes over it with his hands, he finds nothing out of the ordinary. </p><p>It must be his concussion, it has to be--a hallucination, caused by a festering wound. But it--<em> he, </em> whatever--had talked! The aliens had been scared by him! They can’t have been scared by <em> nothing </em>. They had seen him, too.</p><p>A shiver runs down his spine, so strong it makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He rubs his arms. He doesn’t know<em> what </em> to believe anymore.</p><p>Gordon climbs the ladder back down, then backtracks to the entrance of Sector B. He whistles, the same way he had used to with Sputnik when it had been time to come inside, but he hears no yips, or claws scrabbling against the floor. He lets all his despair out in one shaky sigh. Maybe it had been for the best. He shouldn’t be distracted by such...trivial things, not when he has an important mission to carry out. </p><p>He shakes his head. There are more vital things right now than alien dogs. He understands that wholeheartedly, but he can’t help waiting a minute to see if they would come running.</p><p>They don’t. He signs <em> Be a good boy </em> to the empty air, despondent.</p><p>He moves on.</p><p>--</p><p>There’s this...sensation. This feeling--like his skin had been scrubbed raw by a steel sponge--that won’t let him go. He had felt something like it in the test chamber. That he isn’t alone. That there’s something close by him. It’s the same feeling as a rock in his shoe. As he nears the end of the hallway, he realizes the rock is not in his shoe, the sensation not immediately within him.</p><p>It’s behind this maintenance door--the door that is torn right off its hinges and coming at him. Gordon leaps out of the way, hearing it crash behind him. He swings his gaze around to the closet.</p><p>There, he sees it--him. He sees <em> him. </em>He knows it’s a him--another feeling.</p><p>The last time he had seen that red, cyclops eye, there had been a whole choir of them. Now, there is just the one. The same three-fingered appendages, wearing bracelets of heavy shackles. A third arm springs from above His navel. He looks at Gordon with--what, recognition? There is intelligence, in that gaze. Glassy-eyed shock. </p><p><em> The Free-man. </em>The voice comes suddenly, though not from the alien’s mouth. It--he--speaks directly into Gordon’s ear. His hand flies to the gun.</p><p>
  <em> Forgive me. </em>
</p><p>His pain is so raw, so...so <em> human </em>, Gordon’s hand stills.</p><p>Gordon’s been electrocuted a fair amount of times. You don’t work in a research facility without getting zapped by stray wires every now and then. Down in the samples room, Gordon had to be the one to suck it up and fix the lights himself. Electricians tend to wait for the paperwork to be filled out before they bother even taking a look at the fuse box--or making the trip down.</p><p>The HEV suit is powered by two of the same things--a power cell, and radiation. Electricity is the power source of the past. He couldn’t use the malfunctioning wires to power his suit when the charger had been out, unfortunately. </p><p>Truth be told, he’s no electrician. He had stuck his hand into the fuse box. One hair-raising moment of blindness later, his hand had gone alarmingly numb. It had been that way for a good hour. The medical officer had chastised his ear off for the entirety of those sixty minutes.</p><p><em> Don’t you know, Dr. Freeman, you could’ve lost your hand? </em> he had scolded, <em> Fried the nerves, right to a crispy black! Then how would you sort samples? How would Black Mesa make use of you, then? </em>(The medical officer hadn’t actually said the last part, but Gordon felt it in his tone. The implication hadn’t hurt as much as the electrocution had.)</p><p>A few seconds before he’s knocked back, Gordon realizes this will hurt far, far more than the fuse box. </p><p>He is blinded, two seconds. His back hits the floor. He scrambles to get up, but falls in a heap. His muscles seize and clench tighter than a fist. His nerves are alive. They snap. They crackle. A buzz rattles his teeth, his eyeballs in their sockets, and his eardrums. His jaw locks. His hands spasm with indecipherable signs. Gordon forces a gasp out of his lungs. Something solid is in his palm--can’t be the crowbar, no, gone, behind him--he grips. He grips as tightly as he can, but it’s as if his hand is holding feathers.</p><p>Two of the creature’s face swim in and out of his vision. He pulls his arm up, tells the nerves to <em> move </em>--his muscles respond a minute later. The gun enters his peripheral. Finger on the trigger, like poking cotton. His hand is shaking; he can barely aim straight.</p><p>The creature sees the gun. <em> Forgive me, Free-man, </em> it begs, <em> forgive me.  </em></p><p>A gurgle of a response is what comes out of his mouth. The alien knocks the gun out of his grip. His numb hand falls. The alien advances. Gordon retreats. His hand searches the ground. He needs a weapon. He finds something solid. He grips--he<em> tells </em> himself to grip.</p><p>The oxygen he’s forcing down rubs against his throat like sandpaper. The alien is upon him in a heartbeat. Gordon takes the thing in his hand, and swings. </p><p>It connects, once. Again. <em> Again </em>. He hears the crunch, the splatter. The shrieking. </p><p>He hears <em> Thank you, </em></p><p>and then silence.</p><p>Blood roars in his ears. His glasses are bloody. All he sees is yellow--on the lens, and on the floor, in a puddle that grows. It drips from his hand. From the crowbar.  He breathes heavily.</p><p>His muscles begin to ache--a sign that his nerves are alive. That he is alive.</p><p>There’s something else, deeper still, in him. An ache that is not muscular, nor cerebrovascular. It’s as though it’s all around him, and simultaneously within him. “Ache” isn’t the right word. <em> Absence</em>. A chunk of him is missing, but a once-over proves he’s whole.</p><p>It’s a dull sensation, a throbbing only, but the part that worries Gordon the most is that it matches his heart’s rhythm, as if his heart is where it lies. He does another thorough self examination; nothing. Is he about to have a heart attack?</p><p>With what he had just done, he wouldn’t be surprised.</p><p>He trudges past the alien’s body--he doesn’t want to look, but the yellow blood crowning its head lingers in his peripheral vision--as far away from those words, those words that should <em> not </em> have been human.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <em> Forgive me, Free-man. </em>
</p><p>With every toothache throb, those words echo in his head. This is different. This is <em> wrong </em>. It’s not supposed to be like this. </p><p>His co-workers--he hadn’t heard pleas for mercy, his name spoken with reverence from bloody and malformed lips. They hadn’t been <em> human </em> anymore.</p><p>It had made all this easier--as easy as culling the herd can be, when the herd is composed of people he’s worked with every day for the past two years. They’re not fond of him, and he, not of them, but that doesn’t mean it’s something he’s supposed to enjoy.</p><p>Sputnik II, no matter how much Gordon wants to deliberately misconstrue his--its--understanding of the environment as a shadow of human intelligence, is in the end what Sputnik I had been: a dog. </p><p>But this thing had spoken into his mind with real, palpable <em> grief, </em> grief that he himself now feels, as if inherited. It had said words it shouldn’t have said, when once, in that void of hushed voices, its kind had spoken his name with reverence. It had meant <em> everything </em> to them.  </p><p>And that ache. The ache won’t leave. The sensation that something is missing from him. Grief doesn’t take from you; it reminds you there is nothing left to take. This is something else, something less human.</p><p>He can describe it only as perceiving himself to be completely alone--and knowing that he isn’t. Knowing that there are rocks in his shoe.</p><p>Gordon throws a look over his tense shoulder. Not a thing moves. Pipes hiss. His footsteps echo. There is nothing here but the absence of other life. He keeps walking. </p><p>His hands won’t stop shaking. It may be some parts shock, and other parts caffeine. The most normal thing he’ll hear today is his stomach growling, berating him for his negligence.</p><p>It brings him out of his thoughts for a little, and for that he is grateful. This is something he understands. He tries to convince himself that <em> this </em> is the ache. The stomach lining, eating itself in a deliberate cycle, feeding off of his starvation. He deflates with a sigh of relief. Low blood sugar. That’s why he must be hearing things. That’s what a medical officer would say. He hasn’t eaten since the lunch break the day before.</p><p>The alien hadn’t said anything. It had been his starved imagination, guilting him into...feeling, for these things. The same aliens that had torn apart the science team, that are tearing Black Mesa apart now--he had done the right thing.</p><p>
  <em> Had he? </em>
</p><p>His stomach grumbles again. Right. Focus, Gordon. He’ll have to hold on a little while longer. The office complexes up ahead have always had the best vending machine fare. Potato chips--he can hear his kidneys’ complaints.</p><p>He comes to a grate that should lead him to the disposal canals. He scrunches his nose, remembering his first day at Black Mesa. Rats and old cafeteria food. He shudders.</p><p>There’s no way he’ll be able to fit in between those bars. There’s got to be another way. He steps back and surveys the room, spotting an open grate beside the door. A red ladder leads downwards. The smell of sewage hits his nose.</p><p>On his right, he hears apprehensive mumbling coming from a big, green dumpster. He pops open the lid, and jumps back when a scientist pops out.</p><p>“Shh,” he says, “Don’t tell <em> anyone </em> I’m here! I’m hiding here until the military comes, and you should, too, Dr. Freeman.” The scientist doesn’t wait for an answer and grabs the lid, slamming it close with a bang. Gordon raises a brow. He knocks on the lid. “Go away!”</p><p>Well, he should be safe there. Who would think to look in a dumpster, anyway?</p><p>Gordon goes back to the grate. He slides down the ladder, HEV boots splashing the surprisingly cold sewage. He rounds the bend and finds another ladder. It would’ve been useful, had it not been cleaved in two, the other half of it submerged in the brown “water”. The grate up above is a window to the other side of the door. He can see bits of debris, here and there.</p><p>Gordon takes a step back and goes down an opposite tunnel. He finds a bright red valve attached to a rust coloured pipe. A lightbulb goes off in his head. If he can raise the water levels, the water should carry him up right to the grate. </p><p>Just as he turns the valve around once, he stops. All this talk of aches makes him realize the lack of one. He presses the skin around the wound. He notes that his scalp is crusted with blood. The wound doesn’t sting like it used to--it doesn’t sting at <em> all </em>. The morphine is working as intended, which is fortunate...but it remains a gaping wound either way.</p><p>It doesn’t take an MIT graduate who minors in sample sorting (and cart pushing) to figure out that raw sewage + open head wound = intense and possibly incurable infection. </p><p>He turns the valve with a grunt, putting his elbows into it. As long as he keeps his head above water, he should be able to avoid the worst. Having an ear infection <em> and </em>an infected gash would render him useless. </p><p>The valve obviously hasn’t been turned in years; it takes a few minutes for it to loosen. With a hiss, the water starts to rise and pool around his ankles.</p><p>They wouldn’t have designed this thing without buoyancy in mind. They couldn’t have. The HEV suit <em> is </em> buoyant...right?</p><p>Of course, this is the string of doubt that enters his mind as the water gushes to his knees. Impeccable timing. By the time he rushes to the open grate, the water is pooling around his elbows. He extends his arms out and tries to remember what his summer swimming coach had taught him when he had been ten.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t worry, the sharks won’t wanna eat ya ‘cause you’re all skin and bones. They might take a nibble, though. </em>
</p><p>Not as helpful as he would’ve thought. The water rises to his collarbone. He doesn’t sink--the water carries him up, up, up. Oh, thank God. He keeps his chin up as he climbs up and out the grate onto the other side.</p><p>--</p><p>He emerges into a familiar room. Black Mesa has these kinds of rooms all over the facility, especially in Sector C. There is a large lift in the middle of the room for transporting heavy cargo and forklifts. Vents cover the four corners of the room, and another pair of four in a row are above the control panel.</p><p>Usually a guard operates the lift, but the post has long been abandoned. Gordon can once again thank his sample sorting hours for another thing--if he hadn’t learned how to operate the lift himself, he would’ve been late every day, thanks to Otis’ frequent snack breaks. He can manage the sample room’s employee elevator, too. It’s really just two buttons.</p><p>He takes the stairs two at a time and up to the control panel. A flick of a switch here, a button press there, and the lift begins to descend. He hops over the rail and onto the platform, stumbling and falling onto his backside. He grumbles; that could’ve looked a lot cooler. Gordon stands, brushing the suit off. </p><p>Just before he loses sight of them, the vents above the control panel are blown from their hinges. They fall with a clang. He hears the tell-tale clicking of aliens. He tightens his grip on the crowbar, and hesitantly gets into a batting stance. He used to play baseball as a kid, but never with a crowbar. How different can it be?</p><p>Feet apart, shoulders together. Those round, fat, crab-like aliens he had seen prior come in waves from the vents. The baseballs he’s been pitched have never been alive, either.</p><p>Hey batter, batter, batter--the first one launches forwards--<em> swing </em> ! <em> Crack </em>! The alien’s body falls over the edge of the platform. Despite himself, he grins. Then, drops it. Hot shame floods his conscious. He doesn’t like this.</p><p>Gordon gets back into a batting stance reluctantly. This game isn’t over yet. They keep coming. He keeps swinging. Home runs, sometimes--strikes one, two, three, you’re out! other times. For the latter, he finds kicking them off works efficiently. He just hopes none of these are Lamarr.</p><p>Strike one--an alien falls onto his chest, causing him to stumble backwards. He teeters on the edge, before launching himself forward. He grabs the alien’s sides and pulls. He grits his teeth. It’s got a steel grip. Finally, he wrenches it free and throws it off the side. </p><p>The lift stops with a jolt. Gordon’s breath comes out in slow pants. He loosens his grip on the crowbar--his momentary steel bat--and soreness springs forward. He rolls his shoulders, wipes the sweat off his brow. He surveys the damage; small alien carcasses scattered about, bloody bellies exposed. All around the lift’s belt, there are yellow splatters; the same goes for his suit. More yellow than orange. He lets out a sigh, and pushes his glasses up.</p><p>The disposal canal murmurs softy behind him. A green, stagnant body of water that radiates warmth. The bridge is half submerged in the water. Another swim. On the other side are a few doors. Above it, a platform, though it seems unreachable.</p><p>Gordon looks to the left of his side of the platform, and finds nothing but darkness.  To his right, however, light crawls out from under a closed door. </p><p>He has his hand on the doorknob when it suddenly flies open, smacking him in the nose. He grunts, stumbling backwards towards the canal, glasses knocked askew.</p><p>“Gordon?” Of all people, it’s Agent Michael who says this. Gordon barely catches a glimpse of the agent before something--a rope, no, too <em> alive </em>--wraps around his neck. The open door illuminates two, three similar ropes around it--not ropes.</p><p>Tongues.</p><p>The noose pulls taut. Gordon lets out a strained gasp. His kicking boots skim the water. Black spots grow at the edge of his vision. </p><p><em>Help </em> , he can’t sign, fingers frantically trying to pry the cord from his neck. <em> HELP.</em></p><p>--</p><p>Michael’s hands move faster than his thoughts do. They catch up when he hears the <em> bang </em> from his gun, and the large splash as Gordon falls into the canal, free. He doesn’t come to the surface. Michael swears loudly, before dropping his briefcase. </p><p>He dives into the canal. </p><p>--</p><p>Gordon tries to breathe, but his lungs fill with canal water. His lungs continue, begging for air; they burn, just as his head does. He flails, unable to make out which way is up. He sees only the murky, black around him, at the edges of his vision, behind his eyes.</p><p>Then, two arms go under his, pulling him up. His head breaks surface, and he gasps, spluttering. He clambers onto the platform as soon as he feels it. He hangs his head, every cough coming out wet. </p><p>A hand takes a wack at his back. Then, a yelp. HEV suit; metal. Right. “Come on, Gor-don, come on.” There must be water in his ears, because the voice is muffled. Everything aches. He coughs again.</p><p>He looks up and through his hair to see Michael, eyebrows creased in worry. The agent tries a smile; it runs with ill-concealed concern. It might just be Gordon’s glasses. Michael’s jacket is soaked. The cobalt blue turns a midnight shade. His leather gloves are shiny. Strands of hair hang in his face. The agent stands.</p><p>“Well, Dr. Freeman,” he says, that all too familiar lisp, those dropped syllables, a great comfort. “Quite the...after part-y, hmm?” He extends his hand out.</p><p>Gordon, despite the circumstances, smiles, too. He takes the hand, and stumbles to his feet. Water runs down his hair, his scalp. His breathing comes back in slow measures. He watches Michael wade across the canal to retrieve his briefcase. By the time he heads back Gordon’s way, briefcase held high above his head, Gordon’s lungs have stopped burning.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, and lets it out through his nose. For someone who had just been strangled, his head doesn’t hurt as much as he had thought it would. Small miracles, in the form of morphine.</p><p>Gordon cards a hand through his wet hair, feels crust at the edge of his fingertips--and remembers.</p><p>--</p><p>[SUBJECTS: GORDON AND MICHAEL]<br/>[STATUS: REUNITED; Please standby for further instruction.]</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, you can find me at mail-me-a-snail!<br/>this AU's sideblog is open to any and all asks :] I can't guarantee you'll be able to worm spoilers out of the<br/>characters but...here's to trying!</p><p>Next chapter, before we hit the reunion tour, let's go back to some old faces...and meet a new one, too.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Assisting the Elderly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dr. Eli Vance is certain of only two things.</p><p>The first thing is that that had been a Resonance Cascade--a scientific phenomenon he’d never thought he’d witness, much less have a hand in causing it. His share of the blame is without question. He had known, as well as anybody would with two eyes, that that crystal had been trouble.</p><p>The second thing is that the after party would’ve involved significantly less bloodshed, and a lot more beer.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Graphic description of a wound.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dr. Eli Vance is certain of only two things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been a Resonance Cascade--a scientific phenomenon he’d never thought he’d witness, much less have a hand in causing it. His share of the blame is without question. He had known, as well as anybody would with two eyes, that that crystal had been trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second thing is that the after party would’ve involved significantly less bloodshed, and a lot more beer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole science team would’ve gone out for drinks in a quaint little hole in the wall in Sante Fe, in celebration of the advancement of science. He had even heard a passing rumour that the Administrator, his right hand man Mr. Calhoun, and Agent Michael would’ve been there, too. What a trio they would’ve been, at this hypothetical party. Sulking in the corner, too at war with one another to make conversation. Glowering while everyone else has fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Eli is uncertain of is if they’ll be able to make it out of Black Mesa in time--before it all comes crumbling down into ash. The topside dormitories would’ve been the first to evacuate at any sign of danger. Azian and Alyx are--</span>
  <em>
    <span>should be</span>
  </em>
  <span>--out of harm’s way. The Administrator, Calhoun, and the few others stationed within Sector A, to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon is en route to the surface. Just thinking about that man makes Eli’s heart ache. He had been injured, and he had said </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A head wound, at that. An </span>
  <em>
    <span>open</span>
  </em>
  <span> wound. Eli looks down at the blood on his hand. It’s a vivid red, coursing through the wrinkles in his palm. The sight of it is nauseating. He curls his hand into a fist. It makes his knuckles pop out against the red. He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known. It’s not entirely his fault, however. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gordon should’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>told him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, Eli?” Isaac says. They’ve been sitting together ever since Gordon had left, unsure of where to go, or who to wait for. The dark stain on Isaac’s abdomen isn’t getting any smaller, and the man’s breath hitches with every movement. The crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes wrinkle with worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli hopes his smile is reassuring enough. He puts his other hand on the man’s bony shoulder. “All right, Izzy. Yourself?” Leave it to Isaac to be concerned for everyone but himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As well as anyone with shrapnel and glass in their belly would be.” Isaac shifts, grunting in discomfort. He raises his brows. “Do you think Gordon will be alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli swallows. “Let’s hope so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors of the observation room slide open. Isaac jumps beside him, then winces. Eli’s eyes flick around the room for a weapon. Glass shards. A busted pipe, halfway across the room. If he’s fast enough...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hackles fall when he sees the man who walks in. He dares to feel a spark of hope. “Thank heavens,” he says, sighing in relief. “We’ve been waiting for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In walks the Security chief himself, Mr. Calhoun, gun at the ready. He lowers it when he sees them. If anyone can get them out of here, he can. His shirt is pristine--there’s barely a mark on him. Where had he come from, the laundromat? Eli dusts off his lab coat self consciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late to the party, Mr. Calhoun,” Isaac muses. The corner of Calhoun’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Fashionably, of course.” Isaac looks the Security chief up and down--Eli’s not the only one to take note of Calhoun’s impeccable attire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Vance, Dr. Kleiner,” he says, in a cool drawl. “It’s mighty fine to see you two. One hell of a light show, that was.” He kneels at Kleiner’s opposite side, eyes glazing over the dark mass of blood. “What’s the damage, Dr. Vance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shrapnel,” he supplies, “and glass.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yourself?” Aquamarine eyes flick to him. Eli knows now what Gordon sees--they’re stunning. Such a pure, undiluted color, it’s almost unnatural. Almost. It takes him a few seconds to respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A severe urge to sneeze because of all of this dust, but otherwise, no.” Eli shakes his head. “Have you seen--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met Dr. Freeman up ahead, five, six minutes ago.” Eli’s worry must be so palpable that Calhoun can read him like an open book; the chief gives him a consoling smile. “He’s alright.” He looks down at Eli’s bloody hand, which the man had put on Isaac’s leg subconsciously. His smile shrinks minutely. “Not outta the clear, but fine enough.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows about the wound. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows. Eli shifts and rubs his knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun stands and surveys the room. His eyes gloss over the little creatures in the containment units, but find interest in the one sleeping at the very end. The one Isaac had christened “Lamarr”, after his favorite actress. A flicker of amusement lights up his face, but quickly fades. Eli raises a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun turns back to them. “Can Dr. Kleiner walk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With some help, perhaps,” Isaac replies, “We really don’t have much of a choice, if we want to get out of here.” As if on cue, the ceiling rumbles, and dust falls onto their heads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much of a choice, and not much time, either,” Calhoun agrees. “Dr. Vance, Dr. Kleiner, I’ll be escorting you to the Anomalous Materials’ maintenance shaft. I’m the only one with access, y’see.” He gestures to his pockets; a key, maybe. An access card seems too formal for the sewers. “Can you support Dr. Kleiner’s weight, Dr. Vance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isaac is scrawny. Even the slightest wind would be able to knock him over, not that Eli would ever say that to him. “It won’t be a problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun takes the gun out of his holster, a shiny, black piece that looks like it belongs in a Western, and holds it at the ready. It’s definitely not the security standard. It adds to his distinction. Without a word, he gestures for them to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli loops Isaac’s arm around his shoulders. They share a look of both trepidation and determination. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to get out of here. “Up and at ‘em, Izzy.” Eli stands, pulling Isaac up with him. Isaac wobbles for a few seconds, before finding his footing. He winces and, with a curt nod, lets Eli know he’s good to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stop again, however, almost immediately, when Isaac says, “Hold on, we can’t leave without Lamarr!” Said alien is awake--Lamarr pokes the glass with one crab leg. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tink, tink, tink</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are, I assume, a dozen of Lamarr, Isaac,” Eli reasons, “You could grab any which one on the way out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Eli,” Isaac argues, “I know that. Biologically, they’re all similar, but Lamarr...Oh, I just--I have a feeling about this one, Eli.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A feeling.” Eli echoes. He trusts Isaac’s judgment, so he looks to Calhoun for his approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doc Kleiner is right,” Calhoun says, almost impatiently. “I get what he means. The little thing can come with us. Can’t guarantee she doesn’t bite, though.” Isaac gives him a triumphant little smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun finds the containment unit’s control panel and presses a button. The glass dome slides open, and the alien just sits there, surveying them for a moment. Then, it--she, apparently--hisses at Calhoun and jumps up into an open vent above them. She doesn’t come back out. Isaac’s face falls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’ll find her way back to us.” Calhoun shrugs with one shoulder. “’s on me; must’ve spooked her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli wants to argue; how exactly will they tell her apart from every other alien like her? But that’s another matter entirely. What’s important now is getting Isaac to safety. Calhoun leads the way, the two scientists hobbling after him as fast as Isaac can manage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They see what Gordon traipsed through--total destruction. The halls Eli had walked just this morning are now unrecognizable in the red wash of blood. The bodies of their coworkers lay still among piles of rubble. A gaunt, dead face here, a limp hand there. Eli shivers, and averts his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They round the bend into the hall and towards the elevator shaft. Calhoun pries open the doors with a steel pipe. “Watch your step,” Calhoun instructs, “We’d take the elevator, usually, but ‘m afraid it’s outta service.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli instinctively looks up. There’s no elevator cab. Eli peers over the ledge. There it is; its cords are snapped, and the roof’s vent is open. He hopes there hadn’t been anyone inside. He thinks he sees a hand through the vent. Before he can look closer, a hand touches his shoulder. He startles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lil close there, doc,” Calhoun says, gesturing to the shaft with a tilt of his head. Eli flushes, and steps back from the ledge. He had been inches away from tipping over and taking Isaac with him. “Thank you,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a red ladder to his left. He coughs, and turns to Calhoun. “There must be another way,” he says, “Izzy--Isaac can’t climb up this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun considers it for all of four seconds before saying, “Dr. Kleiner, do you mind piggy back rides?” When the man in question shakes his head, too surprised really to protest, he nods. “Sit tight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips through the doors and comes back with a spool of thick, black cord. He kneels. He guides Eli through a nontraditional way of piggy back riding; according to Calhoun, it’s called a “webbing”, or a rope seat, in layman’s terms. The cord goes around Kleiner’s back and under his arms, then is crossed over Calhoun’s shoulders, down his back, and over Kleiner’s upper thighs. Calhoun ties the remaining ends of the cord around his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, it’s rather ingenious. Eli will give the chief one thing and that’s his respect; he’s quite dedicated to his job of protecting people. Eli would’ve never thought of this--well, no, he would’ve. His back just isn’t what it used to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they make sure it’s secure, Calhoun instructs Isaac to, “Hold on tight. Dr. Vance, come up behind us, just in case Dr. Kleiner slips.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?!” Isaac squawks indignantly, but Calhoun makes for the ladder anyway. He grabs the rung, and hoists himself up to the next one. Isaac throws a frightened look over his shoulder at Eli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the current, crumbling infrastructure of Black Mesa or the oncoming alien invasion doesn’t rip a hole in Calhoun’s pristine button-up, then Isaac’s iron grip will. Even from below them, Eli can see his friend’s hand shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The climb is slow, but they make it to the top safe and sound. Isaac lets out an audible sigh of relief. Calhoun has his usual, relaxed smile on his face, even as they deposit themselves on a ledge covered with blood. Not recent, it seems, as it doesn’t stain Eli’s shoes. A body in the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, Isaac?” Eli puts a hand on the man’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isaac breathes out shakily through his nose. “As all right as an old man can be,” he says, “riding on the back of a man who’s twenty years younger than him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty years,” Calhoun repeats coolly, “You flatter me, doc, but you’re more of a spring chicken than you know.” Neither know how to respond, so Calhoun starts walking. Eli follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he mentions it, Calhoun isn’t all that young. Walking so close by his side, Eli sees the tell-tale signs of age. Wrinkles, the slightest purple bruising of eyebags. Grey hairs, most especially. The thing is, they make him look </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Some people </span>
  <em>
    <span>grow</span>
  </em>
  <span> old--Calhoun just </span>
  <em>
    <span>aged</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The oldest part about him, though, is his eyes. Eli sees the way they gloss over everything, as if nothing can take him by surprise anymore. In fact, they have a hue of exhaustion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Calhoun, if I might inquire,” Eli breaks the silence. “are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chief rolls with the question, and gives him a simple nod. Eli’s concern slides off of him like water off of a duck. “I’m fine. Beat, as I’m sure you are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli returns the nod. He is. Their conversation lulls, and the silence returns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes after the exchange, the silence is once again broken by growling. Coming towards them is a scientist. Eli can only tell this by his--its?-- torn and bloody lab coat. On his head--that’s not a head anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An alien of Lamarr’s species suckles on the face of this scientist, adding to his groans little chirps of delight. Eli recoils in disgust. Calhoun’s draw is quick; Eli registers the </span>
  <em>
    <span>bang</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the scientist falling, but takes a minute to find the smoking gun. The chief slides it back into its holster, and steps over the body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What...</span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> that thing?” Eli says, gesturing to the corpse behind them as he catches up. “What did--What did it </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’ve ever seen that film </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alien</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Dr. Vance,” Calhoun explains breezily, as if it’s just a backyard beetle they’re talking about. “they’re another kinda facehugger.” He shrugs. “If ya haven’t seen it, I’ll just say don’t let ‘em get close to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli nods, and gulps. He’s seen </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alien</span>
  </em>
  <span>--you don’t know Gordon without watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alien</span>
  </em>
  <span> at least once. “Duly noted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even aliens don’t bother Calhoun. Incredible. It could be a stretch--Calhoun’s the hard-boiled chief of Security. There must be nothing he hasn’t seen before. It isn’t fear he sees in Calhoun’s eyes, actually--it’s nothing. It’s an apathetic absence of </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. In a way, it’s inspiring. If he isn’t afraid, then Eli won’t be, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they continue their journey, Eli occasionally checking in with Isaac, then following soundlessly, with no clue of where Calhoun’s taking them, those eyes never change. Not fear. Not even mild annoyance as they trek through a puddle of blood and it gets all over Calhoun’s boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before they reach the lobby, Calhoun leads them away, and to a door. He takes the key from his pocket--a ring of keys, in fact. It takes him no longer than a minute to find the right one. He slots it into the doorknob, and turns the key.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door leads to another hallway. It’s filled with steel shelves that hold dusty old paint cans and bug spray. Posters promoting workplace confidentiality are plastered on the walls. The fluorescents buzz overhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli recognizes the hallway, but not the door. He doesn’t remember it being here. Ah, it doesn’t matter. Who would give a locked door any attention, anyway?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun walks on like he’s walked this hall a thousand times. It’s as if he’s just going through the motions. That, Eli can’t doubt. It’s intriguing to see behind the scenes on one Mr. Calhoun. Only he has the keys to all of Black Mesa’s closed doors. Where </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> that key ring gone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna have to charge a dollar a minute if ya keep starin’,” Calhoun interjects, meeting his gaze with eyes half-lidded. “Flattered, but do you need somethin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli sputters. How embarrassing. He gestures vaguely to the air, before latching onto a question he makes up on the spot. “I was just, wondering, Mr. Calhoun,” he says, “How long have you worked here, exactly? You made it sound like you’re our age and well,” he chuckles, nervously, though he’s not sure why, “surely not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun’s lips press into a thin half-smile. He shakes his head minutely. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya,” he breathes, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. He breaks his gaze and looks ahead. Finally, something in those eyes: recognition. “I’ve got an officer on duty ‘round the corner here. I’ll take us down to the sewers; he’ll take ya the rest of the way from there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli nods. “And yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back up here for survivors, if there are any.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They round the corner, and the officer is there, just as Calhoun had said. He looks a little young to be wearing that bulletproof vest. He’s got a round, boyish face. A fresh college graduate, perhaps--or a dropout. The scruff on his chin is just that--scruff. Peach fuzz. An ID is pinned to the front of his vest. A stray piece of sandy blonde hair falls in between his brows. Freckles spatter his cheeks. He perks up when he sees the three of them, or maybe at Calhoun, at the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” he greets, with a nod. Even his voice sounds young. Couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-five, at most. “Dr. Vance, and Dr. Kleiner, isn’t it?” He gives them a toothy smile. “It’s nice to meet ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you, young man,” Isaac says with a pleasant, if not worried, smile. No catastrophe can get rid of good manners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another southern accent, though seemingly more severe than Calhoun’s. </span>
  <em>
    <span>To</span>
  </em>
  <span> becomes </span>
  <em>
    <span>ta</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> becomes </span>
  <em>
    <span>nais</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They must’ve been grown in the same wheat field. His skin is as tan as honey--it'd make sense. “The name’s Arlo Calloway, but Officer Calloway is what they call me ‘round here.” His hand twitches, for a handshake, probably, but it stays where it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before any of the four can say another word, the ground rumbles. It doesn’t stop. From rumbling, shaking. Eli stumbles, as does Arlo. Isaac lets out yet another terrified squawk, Calhoun a grunt as the former holds on for dear life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the next second, the floor jolts. Eli loses his footing, and slips onto his back with a groan. He sits up, cradling his lower spine. The ground gives one last big shudder. A thundering </span>
  <em>
    <span>boom </span>
  </em>
  <span>erupts in their ears, before fading out into ringing. Eli throws his hands up to his ears. The ringing lasts all of ten seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sound fades in slowly, and they hear the aftermath not too far from their hallway. Falling debris. Pipes tearing apart. The door to the next room swings open, and hot air rushes past them, ruffling their hair, leaving their coats fluttering. Eli lowers his hands, and lets out a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go.” Calhoun nods towards the open door. Three separate cries of protest answer him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you in</span>
  <em>
    <span>sane</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” From Isaac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We want to head </span>
  <em>
    <span>towards</span>
  </em>
  <span> the explosion--?!” From Eli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I really don’t think that’s a good idea, sir--” From Arlo, though smaller, and more reluctantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” Calhoun cuts through the outcry. He speaks calmly. “it’s either this way, down the reasonably safer route, or back through where we came from. The latter, any number of aliens ready to claw your faces off. The former, a few explosions. Debris. Nothin’ that can or will endanger you.” He meets Eli’s gaze. “You need to trust me.” A request. Not an order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli and Isaac share a look. A look of doubt, and fear. They hadn’t been made for this kind of event. Then, a silent resolution, one Isaac doesn’t look too happy about. Eli sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes of walking go by before the quartet emerge into a new hallway--and almost fall over its ledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half its floor is gone. The wide gap gives them a clear view of the rapid green river that rushes past down below. There’s no way to reach the other side; the hole in the floor is as long as a truck. Steaming hot metal that perhaps had once been a pipe oozes from a crack in the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Eli breathes. He runs a hand through his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said it, Eli,” Isaac agrees, with a note of queasiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Down here,” Arlo calls for their attention. Eli turns his attention to the boy, and sees he’s propped open a hatch. Its red maintenance ladder stretches downwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isaac and Calhoun go first. Careful not to hit Isaac’s head on the hatch frame, Calhoun descends, followed by Eli, then Arlo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Eli sees when he goes down the ladder is the large, cascading waterfall. It’s a jade green, with yellowish foam frothing at its lip. It would’ve been beautiful, had it not been for the smell. The sewers, after all. Boxes descend its length, and shatter upon impact. He watches them float down the river. The motion leads his eye downwards, past Calhoun and Isaac--there’s no platform at the end of the ladder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Vance?” Arlo’s voice brings him out of his thoughts. He has to shout over the waterfall’s cascade. “Is there somethin’ wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might as well be honest. “There’s no,” he shouts back. He pauses. “platform. Under the ladder.” He gestures downwards with one hand, the other curled tightly on the ladder’s rung.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo takes a second to look over his shoulder. He raises his brows. “Huh. So there ain’t.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, doc, I’d trust the chief. He knows what to do, and it ain’t like he’s gonna lead us into the river.” The roar of the waterfall fills the silence. Arlo’s waiting for him to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trust. Alright. Eli can trust--Calhoun’s smart. He has no reason to question the chief’s judgment, not when they’ve gotten this far. He repeats this to himself as he continues the climb, and it helps ease some of the tension in his climbing hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They near the river’s surface. If Eli were to stretch his leg out, he’d be able to skim it with his shoe. Then, say goodbye to that shoe, because the current is far too quick for a swim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his left is a tunnel entrance, with a rusted grate propped open by pieces of rubble and a pipe, straining under the weight of the debris. It creaks sullenly. The wall on the opposite side of the tunnel is completely blown apart. More of that steaming hot metal slathers the bricks. One pipe yet remains, and on it, in stained yellow letters, it says </span>
  <em>
    <span>GAS MAIN. </span>
  </em>
  <span>An explosion, then. Something big must’ve caused it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun’s boots barely skim the water’s surface. He grips the grate’s bars with his left hand, then pulls himself toward it. He quickly takes another bar in his right. He plants his boots on what few inches of platform remains. He uses it as leverage. Calhoun pulls open the grate, and slips in. He holds it up from the other side, then gestures for them to get closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his hand out for Eli. The doctor takes it, and tries not to flail when Calhoun pulls him in. The tunnel is slippery with puddles of water. He stumbles, but keeps his balance. He takes the opposite side of the grate. Calhoun grabs Arlo the same way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all take a collective breath of relief. Eli and Calhoun simultaneously let go of the grate, and look up in surprise as they hear a strangled creak. The water pipe, now free of its burden, falls uselessly beside them. Small bits of rubble rain down in between their shoes. They share the same sentiment as they look each other--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Run.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun gives Eli a curt nod. The doctor isn’t sure if this is his go ahead, but he’ll take it anyway. He runs as fast as he can--it’s hard when every other step is a watery one. He tries not to think about being buried alive. That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the way he’ll be going. No way, no how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Concrete powder wafts onto his shoulders. Rubble pelts his arms. With painful groans, the tunnel begins its collapse. He focuses on his companions’ footsteps. One after the other. They’re behind him. They’re behind him, they have to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He launches out of the tunnel, and collapses knees first into cold, cold water. Arlo follows, coming to a halt beside him. Eli whips around, fearing the worst--before his shoulders slack at the sight of Izzy and Calhoun, safe and sound. More grey with powder than red with blood. Eli wouldn’t have it any other way. He smiles. Izzy does, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s momentary, but the celebration of </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re alive! </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tunnel is completely collapsed. There’s no going back that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” Arlo asks the two scientists, and when they nod, asks the same of Calhoun. Instead of answering, Calhoun calls the boy over. He starts instructing him, but Eli doesn’t hear a word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Arlo’s assistance, they get Isaac out of the webbing. Eli gets out of the freezing sewage. He sits on the platform. He smacks one ear with the butt of his palm. His cotton buds will be grey for weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Vance, if you will,” Calhoun calls. Eli obliges. Arlo supports Isaac’s weight, then slowly transfers the man to Eli. “Luckily for us, there won’t be any ladders from here on out. Arlo will take ya the rest of the way. You should be able to reach Sector G’s access lift from the Anomalous Materials sample room. From there, topside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Calhoun,” Eli says earnestly, “Good luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Calhoun shakes his head. “You’ll need the luck more than I do.” He turns to Arlo, and puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You be careful, Officer Calloway. I’m trustin’ you with their lives.” He gestures to Eli and Isaac. “There’s no one else I’d trust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo seems to flush with the praise. “Y-Yes, sir,” he sputters, with a hasty salute, and a smile he fights to suppress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calhoun smiles minutely. “Good man.” He nods to the two scientists. “I’ll see you topside.” With that, he heads down the leftmost tunnel, and disappears round the bend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All three of them meet each other’s gazes, then Eli and Isaac to Arlo with expectancy. He straightens up with all the attention, and finally lets that smile grow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This way, Dr. Vance, Dr. Kleiner,” he says, in his best authoritative voice, and leads them down the opposite tunnel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A day, a week, or even a month ago, Officer Arlo B. Calloway hadn’t thought he’d be summoned by the chief of Security himself. He’s used to the chief’s presence--but not the talk. Not the one-on-one. Arlo answers to Otis, and Otis to Mr. Calhoun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Calhoun isn’t a fan of convo, no matter how much of it Arlo had painfully tried to make over the five year course of his job. Otis had told him to quit it. He had tried prior; Calhoun just isn’t that kind of guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Arlo had always feared he had done something to get on the chief’s bad side. So two hours ago, when Mr. Calhoun had addressed him directly? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boy, he had felt like he had been floating on air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d reasoned out that </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> the chief had talked to him. He had been the only other person near the office--Mr. Michael had needed help! It had just been a glass of water, that’s all. But still, y’know? He’ll let himself have an inch of satisfaction. To be called upon by the head of Security himself--why, he couldn’t believe it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gun’s getting heavy. He lowers his arms. He throws a glance over his shoulder. Dr. Kleiner and Dr. Vance follow behind--they both have seen better days. Not long, now. They’ll get out of here. Mr. Calhoun trusts him with that mission, and by golly will he see it through.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no one else I’d trust.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he hopes he means that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they reach the maintenance door, Arlo pushes it open with his shoulder. He holds it open as the two scientists shamble through. It slides shut with a creak. He wipes the dust from his hands and holsters his gun. Should be smooth sailing from here. He still remembers the path.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns, and finds the two scientists staring at a gigantic fire, a little ways away from the tram line. It roars and crackles. Metal shifts and falls into the bright orange. He whistles appreciatively. Something pretty bad had happened here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dang--” Nana had never been one for swearing around people older than her--”fine mess we got here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope it had been empty,” Dr. Kleiner says with creased brows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My thoughts exactly.” Dr. Vance agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo hops down from the platform. The line hums. “Careful not to step on the line,” he instructs them, then shrugs. “unless y’all wanna be awake for the next five days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Vance grimaces, and in direct contrast, Dr. Kleiner looks terrified. Bad joke, then.  He holds his hand out for Dr. Vance; the man takes it. Together they help Dr. Kleiner down from the platform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully the tunnels down here are a little more well lit than others. Take a field trip to Sector E on a bad day and you won’t like the dark for a good while. He spots the service elevator almost immediately. Its button lights is on, that’s good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes jab at it. The elevator’s an ancient thing with rusted grates. They open with a groan. He gestures to the cab. “After you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors again shudder close, and they begin their descent. Dr. Vance helps Dr. Kleiner lean against the elevator wall. Arlo had never liked that funny dropping feeling. Dr. Vance must not like it either, because he looks at Arlo incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” he blurts, “I thought our destination was the Sector G Access lift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo cocks a brow. “It is,” he confirms, “Dr. Vance, have you never been to the AM sample room?” He can’t read the expression on Dr. Vance’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo shifts his weight. The scientist shakes his head. He says nothing. He rubs his knuckles, then stuffs them into his coat pockets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a ding, they arrive. The doors inch open. Arlo lets them go first, and then he follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Anomalous Materials Sample room, on the days Arlo’s had his shift, is usually the cleanest glorified broom closet Arlo’s ever seen. It’s just as big as one, too. He can’t count the number of times he’s accidentally bumped into something. The samples had always been sorted in their tall, towering display cabinets. They’d be sorted alphabetically, with nonsense names that had made Arlo wonder just who comes up with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room looks like a bomb had just gone off in it. The display cabinets lay on the ground. A thousand tiny yellow crystals, shattered by whatever had caused this carnage, pepper the tiles. One fluorescent tube hangs from its socket, flickering every now and then. There’s enough light to see, at least. The main elevator, their way out, is in the middle of the far wall, next to a dead HEV charger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator’s light is on; functioning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only the tiny desk in the far right corner is intact. Its chair is knocked over as well, but it has all its legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo clears the way with his boot. He sets the chair right and helps settle Dr. Kleiner into it. The latter breathes a heavy sigh, sinking in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Vance stays standing. His eyes are fixated on the desk. On it, there are pens in a Black Mesa brand mug, notepads, and manila folders. There’s an iPod, too, with a pair of earphones still attached. There’s a calendar on the wall that’s flipped to May of 2001. The sixteenth, today’s date, Arlo notes, is circled three times in red ink. In the center of the circle, in thin scrawl, there are the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>After party--make your move!!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Vance picks up a notepad. He chuckles, a sound that draws Arlo’s attention. The notepad has the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gordon Calhoun</span>
  </em>
  <span> scribbled on them. Over, and over. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calhoun</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>??? </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Freeman</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> Calhoun.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A heat rises to Arlo’s cheeks, and he looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bless him,” Dr. Vance mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s certainly head over heels, isn’t he?” Dr. Kleiner observes. Whoever this Gordon fella is, he has the hots for Arlo’s boss. That is just, downright--it’s surprising, is all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’you know who this desk belongs to, doc?” he asks to distract himself from his blush. He’s sure he’s as pink as lemonade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Eli, please,” Eli responds with a patient smile. “and it belongs to Dr. Freeman. A good friend of mine.” His smile drops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I had known Breen had him working down here...” He looks around the room. There’s a fuse box in the corner covered in black electrical tape. There’s several scorch marks around it in a circle. “There aren’t even any windows.” He squints. “Not a clock, either. This--he’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>research associate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for God’s sake. MIT graduate at twenty-seven, and he works </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m...sorry, doc,” he offers, because he’s not sure what to say. He had never met a Dr. Freeman. “I didn’t know anythin’ about who was comin’ and goin’. I just guard the lift.” As soon as he says it, he knows that it makes it worse. This Freeman guy--that’s all Arlo knows him as. A nondescript fella, who works long shifts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who sorts the samples, too--must’ve gotten a hand on the sample that started this whole dang mess. He knows it had been a crystal like these ones that had started it. You don’t guard Sector A without overhearing a few things. Not eavesdropping--makes it sound like he had done it on purpose. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Overhearing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Entirely involuntary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the man had been in charge of something like that, he sounds pretty damn important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli closes his eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he says, “it isn’t. I wish he had told us. If anything, I blame Breen.” Arlo winces internally at the venom that drips from the name. “This isn’t work fit for a man of Gordon’s intellect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence thickens. Eli looks at the desk for minutes, hours. The tension continues, underlying, before Eli moves. He picks up the iPod, puts a bud in, and presses play. A second later, the shadow of a smile appears on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll never understand his music,” he muses, with a fondness that makes Arlo jealous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Kleiner clears his throat. He looks at Arlo with a look so kind he feels he should help walk the man across the street, or mow his lawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Officer Calloway, I think it’ll be best if you look for a first-aid kit, yes?” he suggests, with a slight wince. His hand flies to his stomach. “These working conditions may be...less than favorable, but surely there would be a kit around here somewhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Legally,” Eli adds, taking out the earbud. “there’s supposed to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo nods, ashamed he hadn’t thought of it first. Dr. Kleiner must be in a lot of pain. He mumbles his assent, and goes to the other side of the room to snoop around--as well as to escape the tension. The room isn’t very big; he can hear their argument start as soon as he turns his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s preposterous,” Eli begins. He’s disappointed, not fuming. “unheard of. Gordon’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>research associate</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If I had known, I would’ve gone marching straight up to Breen’s office. Sorting samples is fine, whatever--but in this decrepit little...</span>
  <em>
    <span>cove</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Eli,” Dr. Kleiner responds, sounding equally as dispirited. “but Gordon is a grown man. He must’ve volunteered, surely?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo finds a supply closet in the left corner. He opens its wooden door. The hinges haven’t been oiled in years. It smells like old toilet paper. There’s a mop leaning against the wall, a shelf full of markers and duct tape, and various cleaning supplies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know him as well as I do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. Arlo sorts through the supplies. He pushes cans of polish aside. There’s a dusty old root beer here, too. Probably no good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wouldn’t have protested.” There’s something left unsaid in the silence that follows. He doesn’t know this Dr. Freeman, but the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>pushover </span>
  </em>
  <span>comes to mind. These two must care about him a lot. It’s endearing, in a dad kind of way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands touch the solid plastic box of a first-aid kit. He pulls it out, pleased to see the red cross, and puts everything back the way it was. The two scientists light up at the sight of it. Eli even smiles. He knows as well as they do that a little bit of hope goes a long way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo puts it on the desk. He pops the lid open. There’s a roll of bandages, a few sheets of gauze, and disinfectant. A bottle of hand sanitizer, too. Wipes. He takes the bandages and disinfectant. Eli puts a hand on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how to treat Isaac’s wound, Officer Calloway?” he asks, eyebrows knitted together in concern. Funny. If Arlo had to say anybody looked like an Isaac, it’d definitely be Dr. Kleiner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure I do,” Arlo answers, “Nana taught me everythin’ I know about treatin’ cuts and scrapes. You don’t grow up on a ranch without knowing how to.” He grabs the hand sanitizer and squeezes a drop onto his hands. Thoroughly, now, don’t want an infection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli nods, then looks at his own dusty hands. “Best you do it, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s see the damage, doc.” Eli helps Isaac shrug off his torn lab coat. They hang it over the back of the chair. Isaac lifts the stained hem of his shirt up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of a gash like he had been expecting, there’s multiple puncture holes of varying sizes. Some are as big as bullet holes. Others, a dime only. There’s dried, crusted blood that flakes with each of Isaac’s winces. The skin is shiny--from the blood or from an infection, he can’t tell. Arlo blanches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...” he says, drifting off before he can say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then reconsiders. That’s quitter talk. He’s not gonna do right by anyone with that. “Nana didn’t teach me how to deal with bullet wounds.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bullets,” Isaac corrects, rather matter-of-factly. “shrapnel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Arlo chews at his lip, then nods. “Shrapnel,” he repeats. Then, he shakes his shoulders, determined. “Lemme see what I can do.” He takes a knee at Isaac’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the wipes from the kit. “This might sting a lil,” he warns. With short swipes, Arlo starts cleaning the area. He pauses when Isaac draws a breath through his teeth, then continues. It’s three, four sanitizing wipes before Arlo can see that it is in fact not the blood that’s making Isaac’s belly shiny. The wounds are infected. The skin is unnaturally warm--swollen, even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells Eli as much, just so that he knows. The doc’s brows once again knit together. He rubs his jaw, shaking his head from side to side. He repeats that he’ll do what he can. Eli nods soundlessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right, infection. Antibiotics. It looks like they caught it early; not so swollen as to be taut. The lack of bleeding, however, is concerning. Arlo rustles through the kit. He comes up with antiseptic cream--not antibiotic, unfortunately. It’ll slow the infection down, at least, but something’s gotta kill it eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The antiseptic cools off the heat for now. He dresses the wound with a bandage. He stands and puts everything back into the kit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t able to remove the shrapnel,” Arlo explains. “and, I didn’t wanna. I’m no surgeon, Dr. Vance, I don’t got the hands for that. I mess up, and the wound gets worse.” He pauses. Dr. Vance doesn’t say anything. He continues. “There should be more capable medical officers up ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” It comes out much smaller than he means it to--he hadn’t meant for it to come out at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Em</span>
  <em>
    <span>barrassing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His voice might as well have cracked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Eli softens. “It’s not your fault, Arlo,” he assures him, “What were you able to do?” Arlo walks him through the process. “I see. As long as we can slow the infection down, that...should be adequate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Infected?” Isaac cuts in, “Well, that isn’t good. Let’s hope that those medical officers are near, yes?” He brightens, and it becomes hard not to believe in that hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We won’t know if we don’t go to them,” Eli inputs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo gestures to the elevator. “Let’s?” he suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli takes one last look at the desk and its contents. He closes his eyes, breathes a sigh, then nods. Isaac answers in the same way. “Let’s, Officer Calloway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Arlo,” he corrects, “we’re all personal now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli and Isaac hobble on over to the elevator. Arlo pushes a button, and thanks his lucky stars that the doors open. They file inside. Arlo scans the wall of buttons, before decidedly pressing one labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sector G Loading Dock</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not going up.” It’s not a question, this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arlo gives Eli and Isaac an apologetic smile. “’Fraid not, doc.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator doors shut, and they begin their descent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they descend, Arlo can’t help but think,</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you watching me, Mr. Calhoun</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[SUBJECTS: GORDON AND MICHAEL]<br/>
</span>
  <span>[STATUS: IN TRANSIT]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[SIX SUBJECTS PENDING]</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't you just love these two lil grandpas? </p><p>As always, mail-me-a-snail and security-chief-calhoun if you'd like to talk to me. You can also see a better picture of what Arlo looks like on the latter! He's a sunshine boy, really.</p><p>See you next time!</p><p>(Oh, and keep an eye out--I'll be posting Gordon's playlist tomorrow!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Reunion Tour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Black Mesa band's getting back together again; you don't wanna miss this! In which Gordon and Agent Michael make a friend,<br/>beat up a vending machine, and get sick of all these platforming puzzles.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Heights,” Michael says, not sounding all too pleased. “You know, I find that heights and I aren’t friends, as of late.”</p><p>Leaning and looking over the catwalk’s rail, staring into the chasm below, Gordon finds he shares the sentiment.</p><p>He’s learning a <em> lot </em> about Black Mesa, it seems, because he had no idea such a vast, deep drop lay behind a nondescript maintenance door. Big cargo crates hang heavy and still above them, dangling precariously from wire thin suspension cables. Behind them, and next to the door they had come through, is a red ladder bolted to the wall.</p><p>A lightbulb goes off in Gordon’s head. Before he can even propose his plan, Michael shoots him down with a look of disbelief. “No,” he starts, shaking his head. “you can’t be serious. You can’t be <em> that </em> mad.”</p><p>Gordon shrugs, then gestures to the door. He signs, with some amount of cheek, <em> You want to go back? </em></p><p>Michael presses his lips down into a flat line. Then, he sighs. Without a further word of protest, he puts his briefcase’s handle in-between his teeth, and starts climbing. Gordon wonders if that’s at all sanitary as he follows.</p><p>Michael takes the lead. One jump to the next. Each time they land, the cargo boxes creak and shudder with their weight. Besides breaths sucked in through gritted teeth and close-call exclamations, they work quickly in silence towards the platform at the far end of the chasm.</p><p>With one great bound, and a grunt, Michael finishes the race in first.</p><p>“It’s never too late to go back,” he calls, with a smug grin, from the platform.</p><p>Gordon gives him a half-hearted glare as he hangs onto the last cargo box’s suspension cable for dear life. For a man pushing fifty, Michael sure is fast. Then again, <em> he’s </em> not the one wearing a fifty pound metal suit.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, letting it whistle on the way out. He can do this. He lets go of the cable, and jumps. He lands with a solid <em> thud </em>. It sends a shuddering jolt up his legs. He stumbles forward, but Michael is quick to catch him.</p><p>He shakes it out, then gives Michael a giddy thumbs up. The agent’s smile shrinks to a small, approving thing, before they move on.</p><p>The next door leads them out into a hallway with a half broken bridge sticking out of the entrance. The river lies below. One more venture up, and they should be in the offices.</p><p>It doesn’t take the pair long to find the elevator. Its buttons glow a warm yellow, a matching tone to the sewer’s green. Michael steps up, and jabs the up button.</p><p>After a few seconds, the doors slide open with a soft <em> ding </em>. He gives Gordon a slight triumphant smile, then steps in. The other man follows. The door closes, and the car rumbles as they begin their ascent. </p><p>Gordon should be thinking about how lucky it is they’re another step closer to the surface and safety--or dreaming about Sector B’s confectioneries. The potato chips. The <em> soda </em>. The fact that his stomach will be full of more than just swallowed fear and acid.</p><p>These aren’t the thoughts that race through his mind. He knows what he’s really thinking about, what he’s trying to <em> convince </em> himself of--</p><p>His wound is <em> not </em> infected. </p><p>He lowers his head and wrings his hair out. Gordon slides his hair tie around his wrist. It’s gone from turquoise to a soggy grey. He had been submerged for, what, two minutes at best? He feels the wound’s jagged edge as he cards a hand through his hair.</p><p>Oh, he’s not fooling anybody, least of all <em> himself </em>.</p><p>Infection would’ve been inevitable. The longer he would’ve gone without bandaging it, the sooner he would’ve invited it in. It’s not a matter of if, now, it’s a matter of how long--how long does he have before he’s dragged down by the effects?</p><p>Hours, maybe. Maybe he doesn’t even have hours. It could be minutes. He’s not that kind of doctor; he wouldn’t exactly <em> know </em>about the biological rate of infection. </p><p>He doesn’t like his odds. His stomach turns just thinking about it. Oh, God, could that be the infection acting already? He thought he’d have more time. He <em> has </em> to have more time. He sucks in a breath between his chattering teeth. He blinks rapidly. His eyes shift in and out of focus.</p><p>The elevator constricts around him. Blobs and shapes push and mold at the edges of his peripheral vision. </p><p>He’s fine, he’s fine, <em> he’s fine. </em>Even as his heartbeat pounds in his ears, he’s fine. Even if every drop of water feels like a ball of lead, every breath a rattling can.</p><p>“Gordon?” A hand shakes his shoulder. All at once, his vision expands, and he remembers where he is. </p><p>He stares at Michael like a dead fish, trying to gather his thoughts. His breath comes in shallow gulps. Gordon’s hands grip the railing tightly as he leans against the wall. When had he grabbed them? He would let go, but he feels like he’d tip over sideways if he did.</p><p>Michael crowds his vision, brows knitted together in worry. “Are you alright?” he says, “You’re pale.” </p><p>Gordon doesn’t hesitate before releasing one hand from the rail. With his hand in a half closed position, as if he’s holding something, he quickly swipes it down his chest. </p><p><em> Hungry </em> , he signs, <em> I’m hungry. </em> That’s not good enough. <em> I haven’t eaten since, </em> he pauses, then sheepishly continues, <em> last night. </em> Not necessarily a lie...just a later, more acceptable time of day.</p><p>Michael raises his brows, before furrowing them again in exasperation. “Gordon,” he says, “You’re falling all over the place.” Gordon subconsciously straightens. “You didn’t think to have breakfast be<em> fore </em> the science-advancing test of a lifetime?” </p><p>He wants to say he hadn’t really expected the abolishing of lunch breaks, but he decides against it. Michael’s tone is level, but Gordon’s neck still flushes. He <em> is </em> hungry, but that really isn’t what he’s worried about. He’s just made it ten times harder to tell Michael the truth.</p><p>“You’re lucky Sector B has a cafeteria,” Michael huffs, “and their vending machines.” Gordon swears that Michael shudders. “I might have some loose change in my jacket.” </p><p>The elevator <em> Ding </em>! punctuates his scolding. The elevator halts, and the doors smoothly slide open. </p><p>Gordon’s only been to Sector B’s office complexes about three or four times, but he still remembers its clean black and white tiles. Though, they look an awful lot more red now. Michael steps out first, careful to step around the dark pool of blood that acts as the Sector’s doormat.</p><p>The fluorescent bulbs dangle from the ceiling, sparking and blinking erratically. A shoe falls to the floor. Gordon looks up and sees two feet--one with a shoe, one in a sock--dangling. The white cuff pants of a scientist close around their bony ankles. He jumps back as the legs jolt. They’re pulled up, up, up, and out of sight.</p><p>He fights off a full-body wave of chills and gives the shoe a wide berth.</p><p>“God,” Michael says under his breath, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He clears his throat. “Well, Gordon, you...know this place bett-er than I do. Where do we go?”</p><p>The other man blanks. He didn’t really think they’d get this far. He turns around and sees two red doors. Through their windows, he can see the tempting, angelic glow of a vending machine. His heart leaps out of his chest. Gordon tries the handles--no dice. It’s locked from the inside. Rats. </p><p>He turns to examine the opposite side of the hall. A panel of the ceiling lays before them. From its matching hole, a live wire snaps and crackles like a snake. It dances like one, too. Gordon attempts stepping forward, but it bites him on the shoulder. He leaps back with a yelp; it’s like getting whipped.</p><p><em> Not that way, </em> he signs. </p><p>He backs away. One of those crab-like aliens wobbles forward and tries the same thing, with little success. The smell of burning meat fills the air. Gordon scrunches his nose. He’s hungry, just not <em> that </em> hungry.</p><p>“Over here,” Michael calls. The agent stands beside a vent. He gestures to it with one gloved hand. “No way forward--so you, make your own.”</p><p>Gordon pries it open with the crowbar, and squeezes in. Another thing he’s learned about Black Mesa today is that the vents are surprisingly, and fortunately, large enough to fit the HEV suit. A few twists and turns here, and he reaches the end of the duct. </p><p>He bashes it open with the business end of the crowbar. The grate falls to the floor with a clang, and he follows in the same manner.</p><p>He grunts, sitting up. A strangled wail erupts in his right ear. A scientist kicks and fights. He pulls and scratches frantically at his neck. His eyes bulge out of their sockets. A pink, fleshy noose is wrapped tight around his throat. The alien is out of sight, but Gordon knows what it is.</p><p>His hand flies to his holster. He finds it empty. He blanches. He hadn’t picked it back up when that alien had knocked it from his grip--stupid, <em> stupid </em>! He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Back to unceremonious plan B then.</p><p>He takes a running jump, and grabs onto the scientist’s convulsing legs. He digs his toes into the ground, gritting his teeth. He’s not letting someone die on his watch again, not this time.</p><p>The scientist flails his arms, warbling strained cries. Gordon pulls and pulls. The scientist is nearly entirely horizontal. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of breaking the scientist’s neck by accident until now.</p><p>Despite this, he holds on tighter.</p><p>With one, final tug, the alien relents, and both Gordon and the scientist tumble onto the floor. The latter coughs, gasping shakily. He’s still alive. He swings around to look his saviour in the eye. He’s brimming with gratitude. His chestnut, side-parted hair is matted with sweat. It greys at the sides. His spectacles are askew.</p><p>“Dr. Freeman,” he croaks, “thank goodness! That thing could’ve <em> eaten </em>me.” At Gordon’s incredulous look, he gestures to the moldy green couch behind him. “I-It ate my colleague. Left nothing but his--” he shivers--”his lower...extremities.”</p><p>Gordon scrambles away from the couch. His back hits something solid. He grunts, and looks over his shoulder.</p><p>The warm honey glow of a vending machine washes over him. Through the glass pane, he can see four rows of all kinds of snacks, withheld by quarter-and-dollar-operated claws. He’s drooling just thinking about it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand just to make sure. His lips are chapped--he’s definitely gonna need a drink to wash it down.</p><p>He puts a hand on the glass window. Just a little while longer. He sees the reflection of the red door in its glow. </p><p>Gordon turns, and pushes it open.</p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Gordon had <em> not </em> looked fine. Pale and shaking like that--Michael had thought he’d collapse in a pile at any second.</p><p>Of course, Michael would understand, if he too had fasted for...oh, what, fourteen straight hours, give or take? Honestly. Michael would think Gordon would know better than that. The agent shakes his head.</p><p>And now, instead of eating a balanced meal, Gordon will have the first thing the vending machine ejects, be it chips or--ugh--some kind of <em> sweet </em>.</p><p>Just looking at that snapping wire makes him queasy. He stuffs his hand, which he had subconsciously brushed against the old weathered skin around his neck, into his pocket. Worries for another time. </p><p>Just as he turns around, the two big red doors at the end of the hall swing open. Gordon gives him a wave, with something like hope in his eyes. Hope, yes--and the reflection of a vending machine in his glasses. Michael, despite his qualms, smiles. He exhales through his nose. </p><p>Behind Gordon, a scientist, looking rather shaken, leans heavily on a green couch. Recognition flashes in the look he throws Michael’s way. He immediately stands up again and at attention. Michael raises his brows. That’s new. The scientist eyes his briefcase.</p><p>“Agent Michael,” he exclaims, “I didn’t think you were still here. That is, to say, I thought you would’ve been among the first evacuees.”</p><p>“At ea-se. I’m not military.” The scientist takes his seat once again.  “I would’ve, but I had...business, in Sector C at...the time of the in-cident.”</p><p>“That was a Resonance Cascade.” The scientist has a small, almost thoughtful smile. “Never thought I’d live to see one.”</p><p>Michael turns to Gordon, about to inquire, but the man’s turned away from them. He ogles the vending machine with an almost empty, zombie-like stare. His hands press up against the glass. He might as well be drooling. </p><p>“If you’ll...wipe your ch-in, Gordon,” Michael says, “I should have a dollar or t-wo.” He unbuttons his suit jacket. The agent pushes past the gun in his pocket--on safety, of course, he’s not a madman--and gropes around. He knows he has some loose change. “Just a...moment.” A few quarters maybe, a dime.</p><p>Huh. He could’ve sworn...perhaps the other pocket. He switches sides. Aha, there it is. He knew he hadn’t forgotten his wallet in his room-- </p><p>
  <em> CRASH! </em>
</p><p>A yelp follows. Michael jumps, hand automatically flying to his gun. He stills when he sees glass shards shining like diamonds on the floor. </p><p>The vending machine’s prizes sit in the open air. Gordon, crowbar in his lowered hand, meets his gaze with a manic glint. Michael feels that if he were to get in his way, it’d be him smashed next. Michael raises his hands, half placatingly and in mock surrender. The scientist lowers his raised arms with a relieved exhale.</p><p>“Goodness,” he grumbles, “you couldn’t have w-aited the five seconds for me to look for...a dollar?” Gordon drops the crowbar. It hits the floor with a <em> clang </em> . “That was <em> government property </em>, Gordon, you--” </p><p>Michael pauses. Gordon eyes him, waiting for him to finish. Without the crowbar to hold, his hands are curled into fists at his sides. No matter how tightly they’re clenched, Michael can see that they tremble. With impatience, or indignation, no--<em> desperation </em>. He knows a starving man when he sees one. </p><p>The agent presses his lips into a flat line. He nods slightly, and gestures to the machine. “Go on, then,” he relents. </p><p>Gordon’s shoulders slack. He reaches into the machine and grabs a tinfoil package.</p><p>The scientist takes little interest in the vending machine. He sits back down on the threadbare green couch with a heavy sigh. “It’s amazing you have an appetite,” he says, to a Gordon deep in thought over which flavor of chips to snatch. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach anything after what I’ve seen.” </p><p>After having said this, the scientist shifts in his seat. He inches forward to the edge of the couch. “I can’t believe it.” He shivers and rubs his arms. “That thing up there killed my colleague.” He gestures with his nose to the ceiling. “Just...<em> ate </em> him.”</p><p>The ceiling-hugger’s tongue droops uselessly. The agent doesn’t let his gaze linger on it long. “Why are you the o-nly one here?” Michael asks, “Shouldn’t you...have evacuated with the rest of the complex, Dr. ...?” </p><p>“Page,” he supplies, “Harris Page.” He puts a hand on his lapel, as if to take off an ID, but finds nothing there. He drops it back into his lap. “The offices were empty by the time we got here. We had plans to barricade ourselves in, wait for the military to arrive.” He nods to a door nestled in the corner. “We were going to use the breaker room, but only one person fit in it.” </p><p>“You don’t wor-k here.” Come to think of it, there’s something about Dr. Page that seems familiar. Brown, almost black eyes. Parted hair that’s thinning on the top and silver at the ears. Laughter lines. Spectacles. The spitting image of a reverend, rather than a scientist.</p><p>“I don’t. I work in the--”</p><p>“--the Lambda labs,” Michael finishes for him, the words already on the tip of his tongue. “That’s where I remember you from.” A little itch worms in his throat. He coughs into his fist. He<em> knew </em> he had seen that face somewhere before.</p><p>“That’s right.” Dr. Page looks surprised. “You<em> remember </em> me? I mean, that’s wonderful, Agent Michael--that you’re recovering so fast--after all, we only met when you had your--”</p><p>Michael’s stern glare renders him silent. The agent glances at Gordon, who’s fortunately distracted. Michael lowers his voice to a near mutter.</p><p>“I’ll ask you to keep such ma-tters between you and I,” he says, “I <em> do </em> remember you. I don’t know what we said to one another that day--but I know your face.” He then brings his voice back up to a proper volume. “Where is the rest of the Lambda crew, Dr. Page?”</p><p>“Up ahead,” he answers, “they wanted to go <em> to </em> the military, meet them halfway on the surface. I told them I didn’t want to die.” His hackles raise at Michael’s arched eyebrow. “Call me a coward, if you like, but I’d like to live to see retirement.” He adjusts his spectacles.</p><p>Michael shrugs. That, he can at least agree on. </p><p>Gordon thumps the side of the soda machine with his fist, to no avail. Michael goes round the other side and does the same. With a hiss, the machine dispenses a can of grape soda. Gordon looks at him in wonder. He signs a quick <em> thank you </em>. </p><p>“You’re not the only one with...breakroom knowl-edge, Gordon.” Michael says this with a smirk. He grabs the soda, and tosses it to Gordon. The latter reacts too late, and the can strikes the front of the HEV suit.</p><p><em> “Power, 4%,” </em>the suit chimes helpfully.</p><p>Gordon rubs the back of his neck with one hand and covers his mouth with the other. <em> Oops! </em> He bends over and picks the can up. He pauses before pulling the tab. He gestures to the machine, then to Michael. The agent turns his nose up at the notion.</p><p>“I am...not one for soda,” he clarifies. Michael hits the machine again, and out comes another soda. “but I’m sure Dr. Page is parched.” </p><p>He takes the can and tosses it to the scientist. The latter catches it. He says his thanks, cupping it with both hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world. They pull up the tabs of their cans with a collective hiss. </p><p>Gordon’s relief as he drinks and eats is almost palpable. Michael doesn’t share the same enthusiasm or appetite, but it’s a relieving sight. </p><p>Fourteen hours--good <em> Lord </em>.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Gordon will never take cheap vending machine food for granted ever again. </p><p>Sixteen grams of sodium, one gram of sugar, and fake barbecue flavoring composed of numerous chemicals come together to produce heaven on Earth. To top it all off and to wash it all down, the greatest ambrosia known to man--fizzy, sweet, and syrupy <em> soda </em>. </p><p>He could stay in this breakroom forever.</p><p>As he gobbles down the snack, taking ten seconds in between each bite--he wouldn’t want to waste this--he tunes into Michael and Dr. Page’s conversation. The agent stands, while the scientist remains seated. </p><p>“I suppose,” Dr. Page says, begrudgingly, “since I doubt they’ve gotten very far, we can meet up with the Lambda crew up ahead.” He takes a sip of his grape soda. “It could be dangerous.” </p><p>“It won’t be...a problem,” Michael assures him, “I have a gun--” and adds, as if noticing Gordon listening--”if Dr. Freeman can inhale two b-ags of chips in a minute, he can take on an-y aliens that stand in our way.” </p><p>Gordon’s ears heat up with embarrassment. He splays his fingers out, and closes them near his lips. <em> Shut up! </em> He signs this as lightheartedly as possible. The agent chuckles. </p><p>“He doesn’t have a gun?” Dr. Page frowns.</p><p>He gestures to the crowbar on the floor beside him with the sign for <em> tool </em>. He makes a batter’s motions. Dr. Page nods with understanding, then takes one long sip of his soda. He stands, and tosses it in the recycling bin. Gordon does the same.</p><p>“We better get moving, then,” he says, “and find a charger for your suit, Dr. Freeman.” He sighs. “I hope those fools are alright. I know Anton is hard headed enough to keep them out of danger but...”</p><p>“You said something, about the break-er room, Dr. Page?” Michael points to the door in the corner. He opens it without waiting for an answer.</p><p>Everything goes dark. Not a second later, deep, intense red light washes over the room. Gordon blinks, adjusting to the sudden shift. Michael comes back out, groping around in the low light. The vending machines are dark and the once bright pictures of soda cans are grey. </p><p>Michael gestures to the open hallway. “After you,” he says.</p><p>Gordon hesitates. The grim lighting isn’t making things look <em> too </em> inviting. However, he’d rather move onwards than risk delaying further. He steps out into the hall. Michael and Dr. Page follow in his wake.</p><p>The electrical wire hangs from the ceiling uselessly. The trio give it a wide berth. In the darkness, it too eerily looks like one of those ceiling barnacles.</p><p>The door at the end of the hallway is locked. Gordon jams the butt of the crowbar through the window beside it; the glass shatters and shines across the floor like ice shards.</p><p>Michael climbs through first, then Dr. Page, with Gordon bringing up the rear. On the other side, another pair of doors sit yet again stone-still. They won’t budge. The hallway bends around to the left, and to their right, there’s an office. Its one window is shattered. </p><p>It’s hard to tell what’s inside; it’s far too dark. </p><p>There should be a flashlight built into his suit, if Gordon remembers the training course correctly. It should be...aha, here. He presses a button on the suit’s chassis. It clicks, but nothing happens. He presses it again. The hallway stays its dim red. He blows out a frustrated breath through his nose. Worth a shot. </p><p>“Is that...water?” Michael says. He’s standing by the office’s window, elbows on the sill. He squints into the darkness. Sure enough, Gordon too can hear the gentle lapping of water inside. He raises his brows, and Michael meets his look with equal confusion.</p><p>“Burst pipes,” Dr. Page says, from behind them. He picks at his lab coat. “Failing electricity. I know Black Mesa didn’t account for a <em> Resonance Cascade </em> of all things, but you’d think there would’ve been a stronger contingency plan in the event of one.”</p><p>“The military <em> is </em> our contingency plan,” Michael answers. He walks away from the window. He looks at the doors with little interest, then turns his attention back to the two. There’s something in his eyes that Gordon can’t quite name. “Once we get out of here, they’ll take ov-er and...” He shrugs. “...clean up, so to say.” </p><p>Gordon has hope things will go back to normal; as normal as life can get after a scientific breakthrough as monumental as this. Black Mesa will be the talk of the science community. Or, perhaps, not--there’s every chance that the Administrator will want to keep this failure under wraps. They’ll attempt to reconstruct the Cascade in a more controlled environment, toy around with the data, see what sticks.</p><p>By then, they’ll have shown Aperture Science what’s<em> what </em>. </p><p>They head down the hall. They pass by an empty security checkpoint. Its computer is chair knocked over and lays flat on the tiles. The further they go, the more the black splatters on the floor mold into footprints. The quieter it becomes.</p><p>At last, they emerge into bright white fluorescents. To the left, a rusty red ladder goes down into a loading dock. A chain-link fence and its half open door sit at the end of the platform. </p><p>Something, or someone, leans against it from the other side; a lock must be the only thing that’s keeping it from swinging open.</p><p>Gordon reaches through the gap and unlocks the door. He jumps back as the huddled mass falls onto its back. </p><p>It’s not an alien, but a man--or what remains of him.</p><p>Gordon can hardly stand to look for long, but what little he had seen is exactly that; just a drop of blood in the bucket. It’s not every day one learns a face can be divided in so many quarters. How the skin remains on his skull, Gordon doesn’t have the stomach to figure it out.</p><p>Dr. Page and Michael share his sentiments with a conjoined cry of disgust. “Good <em> God </em> ,” Dr. Page exclaims, clutching his tie. “What on <em> Earth </em> happened to him?”</p><p>“Not Earth,” Michael says with a grim, but sure look. “Nothing on Earth could...do that to someone.” </p><p>Gordon steps over the body. He averts his eyes from everything neck up. A security guard, based off of the baby blue cotton shirt and black tie. The spill from his injuries dye the shirt purple. A shotgun rests against the chest, the stock being held by two limp, bloodless hands. The gun itself looks, in stark contrast, to be in good condition.</p><p>He finds that there’s not only one body, but two. The other leans against the opposite wall, halfway inside a room no bigger than a maintenance closet. Long, grotesque claws drag across the ground. It has a number of tiny, almost pinball-sized holes in its chest. Its head lolls onto its shoulder. Another unlucky scientist, by the white coat.</p><p>A shotgun shell on the floor catches his eye. The guard hadn’t gone down without a fight. Another shell lies by the scientist’s leg.</p><p>He notices then the HEV charger reflected in the tile. He exhales. He pops back out to sign <em> charge </em> to Michael, by way of explaining. The agent acknowledges him with a grunt. </p><p>Gordon goes up to the machine and inputs his clearance code. The charger dispenses the cable. He plugs in, and waits. As it charges, Gordon can feel the suit start to warm, as if with the energy. Is it the suit--or him?</p><p>He touches his neck with the back of his hand. The HEV’s under suit is supposed to keep his temperature level. It’s warm, but not enough to cause alarm. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He can’t handle jumping at the slightest symptom anymore.</p><p>Once the machine’s supply drains with a soft ding, Gordon disconnects from it. He comes back out. Michael and Dr. Page are discussing something rather closely outside. Gordon knows most scientists are afraid of Michael--his power, and connection to the Administrator, specifically--so it’s surprising to see how well the two have gotten along.</p><p>The shotgun the guard holds looks tempting. A crowbar can only do so much, and he’s not about to go back for the gun he had dropped. The holster on the guard’s hip is empty, mirroring Gordon’s own, so it’s either the shotgun or nothing at all.</p><p>Considering he had been, at the time, inches away from being fried to a crisp, Gordon realizes he should be a little more lenient on himself for dropping the damn thing. </p><p>Yet, in the back of his head, he knows being weak like that will get him killed.</p><p>Case in point: it doesn’t get any stronger than a shotgun.</p><p>He pries the weapon from its holder. Rigor mortis gives the guard an iron clasp on the weapon. It weighs heavier than the pistol had, but it’s just as cool--temperature, and quality both.</p><p>On his off days, Gordon likes to kick back and watch any B-list action movie he can find. His personal favorite, as of late, has been the <em> Duke of Action </em>trilogy. The ass-kicking, no-nonsense taking protagonist Duke Feint--office worker by day, FBI agent by night--totes a shotgun just like this one. It’s his signature weapon. </p><p>What other weapon would one use to throw the Russian mafia off their back, anyway?</p><p>He pumps the forestock. It’s louder than they make it out to be in the movies. </p><p>“I see you’ve, got a new...weapon,” Michael says. Gordon looks up from the gun.</p><p>Both the agent and Dr. Page are staring at him. It must’ve been louder than he had thought. “You know how to use, a shotgun, do you now, Gordon?” There’s genuine astonishment in the tone of his voice.</p><p>Gordon nods with a shrug and a smile. How hard can it be? He slips his arm through the shotgun’s strap. It clunks against his back.</p><p>“I feel just that much safer,” Dr. Page adds, without a hint of sarcasm. “Loading docks go nowhere--I think I know a way through those locked doors we passed by. It’s been a while since I worked in this Sector, but it should still be there.”</p><p>He leads the way back to the dark office. “If you will, Dr. Freeman.” He gestures to the window.</p><p>Gordon’s suit hums with energy. It’s fully charged. He presses the button on his chestplate. The flashlight comes on at high-beam. Dr. Page raises his arm to block out the light. “Not at me, please.”</p><p>Gordon turns away from him. He peers into the office, now illuminated by his flashlight. The room is filled wall to wall with water. Various apparatus float on its clear surface. </p><p>“There,” Dr. Page says, “that’s it.” Gordon redirects the flashlight. The scientist points at an open grate by one of the desks. “When I used to work late shifts, I’d work late enough that the janitors would lock up, thinking no one was here.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’d work late a lot, so.” He notices the vent’s cover floating by. “I <em> knew </em> my colleagues would’ve taken it.” </p><p>“You found your own way,” Michael observes, “Interesting. Gordon, you should, go first. You have the fl-ashlight.”</p><p>Gordon clambers over the window and onto the desk right under it. He and the table wobble, but he quickly regains his balance. He gives them the go-ahead; Michael climbs through, then Dr. Page. The scientist holds onto the agent’s forearm.</p><p>His flashlight catches a wire that hangs from the ceiling. He signs, <em> Careful </em>, and points down from the wire to the water. Gordon imagines Michael had only flipped the one hallway switch. </p><p>Gordon and Michael’s second round of The Floor is Lava goes faster than their first. For one thing, they’re not suspended over a thirty foot drop. Gordon spots and flicks a light switch on the wall to <em> OFF </em>. The room doesn’t change in any visible way. </p><p>Electricity--the invisible energy, caught in the folds of mathematics. Gordon wishes for once that a signal would go off and inform them that the water is safe to tread through with a microwave <em> ding </em>. He doesn’t have the time or the paper to graph it all out.</p><p>The line stops. There’s nothing but open water in front of the vent. Now is the time to test. He looks around for a test subject and finds a battery. He grabs it, and on the count of three, tosses it in. </p><p>It makes a tiny splash and sinks to the bottom without a fuss. Test one: success. Now, test two: the human subject. He gulps.</p><p>He steps into the water. It’s shin-deep and cold. After a few seconds, he deems the water safe. He signs as much to his companions. Dr. Page and Michael share a common hesitation. </p><p>The duct is just big enough that they can all fit. Gordon turns off the flashlight; he has to conserve energy. The vent takes them up an incline. A fan moves in lazy circles above them. </p><p>“You used to work here?” Michael asks of Dr. Page, perhaps because like Gordon, he can’t stand the silence. </p><p>“Oh, sure,” he responds, from the head of the line. “Getting to work at the Lambda was my promotion back in--I believe--1982? Dr. Breen gave me my own lab, my own team.” </p><p>Gordon takes note of that. He’s only been to the Lambda Complex once or twice, and never for very long. Research associates don’t get to linger outside of their intended offices. </p><p>“Did your entire team work with you?” </p><p>“Regrettably, and maybe fortunately,” Dr. Page chuckles, “they did not. Doctors Anton Renner, Fletcher Aberdeen, and Zoe Forrester worked in the Lambda Complex long before I knew them. I was the new face on the block back in ‘82.”</p><p>“We’re quite...interested to make their ac-quaintance,” Michael hums. “What <em> is </em> your field, Dr. Page?”</p><p>“Biological engineering.” He says this with nothing short of pride.</p><p>Gordon wonders what they’d need a biological engineer down there for. During his visits, all he had seen were machine parts and cargo boxes. Then again, he’s only a Level 3 research associate--who’s he to say what a biological engineer can and can’t do?</p><p>He stops with a grunt as he bumps into Michael’s backside. He crawls back a few paces. The agent looks over his shoulder, as if to offer an apology. They’ve stopped in front of another grate.</p><p>“If you all would stand back,” Dr. Page says. Michael and Gordon share a look, before backing up a ways. </p><p>Dr. Page flips onto his back. He lifts his leg and kicks the grate. It doesn’t budge. He tries again, stronger this time. It creaks as it starts to give. With a huff, he raises his leg once more. </p><p>The kick that follows is so powerful, it not only breaks the grate off of its hinges--it takes Dr. Page with it. He slides out before Michael can catch him.</p><p>The agent crawls over to the edge of the vent in alarm, but quickly retreats back as rapid gunshots pepper the air. They fly too fast to be from one gun--it’s a turret. They hear a yelp from down below and the scurrying of shoes on linoleum. </p><p>“We’re coming, Dr. Page,” Michael yells out hoarsely into the room below. “Get to cov-er!” He hops out, and Gordon takes his place at the lip of the duct. </p><p>An emergency Black Mesa automated sentry turret hangs from the ceiling at the very end of the room. Gordon’s seen them before; tested one, in fact. It moves and surveys the room with robotic clicks. Several boxes on the floor are broken into wooden shards. There are few that are still whole--Dr. Page, clutching his arm, hides behind one of them. He doesn’t appear to be bleeding. </p><p>The gun comes to life once again as Michael darts to the box beside him. Gordon’s pulse matches the rapid <em> tak-tak-tak. </em>He’ll be safe, as long as he keep out of the sentry’s view. He takes a deep breath. </p><p>He jumps out, and stumbles into the sentry’s direct line of fire. Michael grabs his arm and pulls him behind the box. The hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck stand at attention as bullets whizz by his ear.</p><p>“Gordon, you see that fuse box?” Michael says, calmly, “Look.” He sees it--it’s under the sentry’s platform. “It’ll turn the turr-et off. I hate to put you on the spot but if, you could--” he gestures to the HEV suit--”you’re the only one capable.” </p><p>Gordon gulps and nods. He peeks out of cover. It’s not a long distance from here to the box. He can do this. He can <em> do this </em>. </p><p>He takes a running start. When the sentry powers up, and the first shot flies past, he panics and launches himself forward. He grunts as his chest hits the floor. He slides along, and throws his hand out to stop himself from smashing nose first into the wall. With shaking hands, he flips open the box and pulls the switch. </p><p>With a quiet, almost defeated sound, the sentry retreats back into its hatch in the ceiling. Gordon lets out a breath. Dr. Page and Michael come out of their hiding places. The former’s arm is fine, he assures them--just a nick. A slight rip in his coat sleeve and little blood attests to this.</p><p>“I’ve never been almost shot before,” he jokes, while cleaning his spectacles.</p><p>A hall extends to the left. A sign on the wall says they’re now entering <em> Sector D: Administration </em>. They take the hall up two flights of stairs, and enter another hall of offices. It’s eerily quiet.</p><p><em> Too </em> quiet.</p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Sentry guns--until science finds a way to improve the sentry’s motion detection, Michael says to hold off production. Out of all the ten million sentry guns Black Mesa and the DOD have asked him to approve, he’s found none of them to be quite effective. </p><p>Despite this, he had given his signature, because it’s his job to do so without question (and he hadn’t really thought they’d ever <em> need </em> the things).</p><p>The offices around them are empty. Their doors hang open, and their windows gape. Every single one that they check is in a state of disarray. Cups shattered, pens and pencils thrown here and there. Blood, but no bodies. </p><p>They search for supplies, something to cover Dr. Page’s scrape and Michael’s burn, but find nothing. If worse comes to worst, Michael plans to use any scrap of fabric he can find. He’s already dipped his wound into sewage--for good reason, of course--so an infection is not out of the question. His burn is a shiny, waxy red.</p><p>Gordon fares the best between the three of them. </p><p>He returns to the main hall where Gordon and Dr. Page wait. Both of them look on edge, and Michael feels the same way. There’s something in the air he can’t quite name.</p><p>Ever since he had gotten that shotgun, Gordon’s become the de facto leader of their motley crew. He totes it like some kind of action hero. He has the look in his eyes a dozen privates have had--that look of determination to be a good leader, and an even better soldier.</p><p>Gordon’s no soldier, but he can be a leader. He ducks in and out of offices ahead of them. It’s like he’s looking for something. He’s not thorough; he’s in there for barely a minute. He leaves the doors open as he goes. </p><p>“Gordon?” Michael says, “Is everything...alright?”</p><p>The man doesn’t acknowledge or answer him. His head swivels around, as if he had heard something the other two hadn’t. He stalks towards one of the offices, gun in hand, looking like a man on a mission.</p><p>He opens the door, and pulls the trigger. </p><p>He stumbles backwards with the force of the blast and onto his behind. They hear a similar <em> thud </em> inside the room. Dr. Page and Michael rush over to Gordon, each taking an arm in hand. They help him to his feet.</p><p>“I thought,” Michael says, in both concern and disappointment. “you had ex...perience with shotguns.”</p><p>“It’s that <em> thing </em> again.” Dr. Page gasps. </p><p>Michael looks where he’s pointing and sees two green bovine-like hooves sticking out of the doorway. He recognizes them almost immediately--how can he not, when their image has haunted him?</p><p>His eyes flit up to the head--there isn’t much left of it. Yellow blood pools around it, crowning its head. A cough racks Michael’s chest. He turns away, coughing into his elbow. Whether the itch in his throat had come from disgust at the sight or the big C, he doesn’t know.</p><p>Gordon’s face is pale. He’s not scared; there’s a different look in his eyes. He’s seen it in every engineer who’s made a mechanical breakthrough, every mathematician who calculates precisely as needed. </p><p>Had he found what he had been looking for? </p><p>“Are you alright?” Michael repeats, instead of asking the multiple questions that race through his mind. Gordon finally meets his eyes. He splays his hands out and thumps the side of his right into the palm of his left. </p><p><em> I’m all right </em>.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m right. </em>
</p><p>He <em> knew </em> it. He can’t believe it, but he <em> knew it.  </em></p><p>It’s not just a rock in his shoe--it’s a goddamn <em> magnet </em>.</p><p>“Dr. Freeman?” He looks up. There’s hardly an inch between him and Dr. Page. Gordon backs away. The scientist’s teeth chatter. He rubs his arms through his paper thin lab coat. Gordon tilts his head, as if asking a question. </p><p>“Are y-you alright?” His breath comes out in a cloud.</p><p><em> Why are you shivering? </em> Dr. Page furrows a brow, raising the other, instead of answering. Gordon frowns, and starts to rephrase, but stops when he sees the rows of meat slabs around them. They hang from giant hooks.</p><p>They’re as solitary as statues, and just as big in height. The dim light washes the cool tiles and walls in grey. A slight fog curls around their ankles. It must be freezing--Dr. Page’s whole body shivers as if to demonstrate. Gordon had been stuck inside his head again. He could’ve sworn that just a second ago...</p><p><em> Sorry </em> , he signs, <em> I was...elsewhere. </em>He gestures vaguely, as if his mind had been playing hide and seek in the rows of frozen produce. He shoves the idea of the magnet to the back of his head, for later.</p><p>Dr. Page nods. “I n-noticed.” It lacks the bite of dry cynicism Gordon had expected. It sounds more like concern. One surprise after another. Dr. Page turns away from him without another word. They keep walking.</p><p>Each slab of meat seems more grey than the last, as if the deeper they go, the older the stores--or the weaker the light. Vents and fans whir overhead. The sound echoes. There are a few shelves, too, and on them are tiny glass boxes with a bright yellow label that says: <em> WARNING: DELICATE SAMPLES. MUST BE KEPT AT 31F. Please do not consume. </em></p><p>Gordon wonders if there had been some miscommunication over the delivery. Unless it’s a new untested variant of steak sauce, it’s likely. </p><p>The cold nips the nick in his ear and the wound on his scalp, but otherwise he feels warm. No, not warm--temperate. It feels like a normal sunny day. </p><p>At first, he panics. Then, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and counts to five. When he had first charged his suit, he had felt the same way. That hadn’t been fever, and it isn’t now. The HEV suit was made with countless hazardous environments in mind--both extremes of the temperature scale were taken into account during its production. When the suit had been charged, it had been given enough power for the thermo-regulator to kick in. </p><p>Nothing to worry about, yet.</p><p>They pass by a very shiny chrome ice chest. The orange of the HEV suit is the brightest thing in its reflection. It’s almost neon. An adequately functional suit wrapped up in the brightest hue they could manufacture. </p><p>“Out of my way!” Someone shoves past Gordon, knocking into his shoulder. It turns the both of them around. A scientist quivers and throws his hands up to his ears. He shakes his head frantically. “I don’t wanna <em> die </em>!” Spittle foams at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>He turns, and runs, yelling all the way.</p><p>Gordon’s about to turn around and ask <em> What was that all about </em>? when Michael interrupts him. </p><p>“Run,” he says, “run <em> right now </em>.” </p><p>Dr. Page doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns heel and books it back the way they came, Gordon and Michael falling in step behind him. Gordon signs, <em> What? </em> but it comes out more like <em> WHAT?! </em> </p><p>And then, snapping at Michael’s heels, Gordon sees it.</p><p>It’s a biped, easily the length of an alligator. No snapping jaws, but red tendrils that part to reveal a gaping green mouth. It heaves and spits, and the spit burns a hole through a large slab of steak beside them. The bone is left pure white.</p><p>That’s always a good sign.</p><p>They run past the chrome chest towards where they had come from. Gordon comes to a skidding halt by the shelves. Dr. Page and Michael run past, but the latter turns around. “What are you doing?!” he says. </p><p>No time to explain. Gordon grabs the box they had seen earlier and lifts the lid. There are three or four full beaker racks. Each beaker is a vitriolic neon green. If they hadn’t been made for consumption, they definitely hadn’t been intended for topical appliance.</p><p>He grabs one and hurls it at the alien. The glass shatters against its thick hide. It yelps and thrashes its head. He grabs another. Just as he raises them, the alien turns tail and runs, dazed.</p><p>He lowers the chemicals. His breath comes out in rapid clouds. Michael claps his back. “Not bad, Gord-on,” he says, “not bad at all.” Gordon raises one shoulder in a shrug, fighting a grin. He puts the samples back into the box and replaces the lid.</p><p>Definitely, <em> definitely </em> not steak sauce, then.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>The only way forward is through a vent yet again. Gordon pries it open. One by one, they duck and crawl through. The warmth in the duct is welcoming. They crawl in silence for what feels like minutes, before Dr. Page breaks it.</p><p>“Vents,” he says. “In the event of a man-made calamity, I didn’t think we’d be traveling through <em> vents </em>.” He pauses. “You’d think we would’ve had drills for this.”</p><p>“Drills?” Michael repeats with a chuckle. “How can you have a drill for something hypothetical?” </p><p>“Not...<em> entirely </em> hypothetical.” This statement hangs between the three of them. Gordon waits for the conversation to continue. It lulls. They traipse forward without another word about it.</p><p>Eventually, Michael, at the head of the line, comes to a stop. “Gordon, your crow-bar, if you will,” he says. Gordon passes it along. “So we don’t, have anymore...<em> incidents </em>.”</p><p>“It’s what they do in the movies,” Dr. Page mutters, only loud enough for Gordon to hear. </p><p> With a solid <em> thunk </em>, Michael bashes the vent open. It falls onto the floor with a clang that echoes up and up. Stairs. Michael hops out, and his two companions follow. </p><p>In the corner, a security guard desperately pumps the chest of another. The latter is limp, pale; it’s beginning to look fruitless. His helmet-less head rests on the linoleum, hair matted with sweat--or blood. “Come on, now,” the former says, breathless. One, two, one, two. “Come on.” </p><p>His head whips around when Michael hits the ground. His shoulders slack, then immediately tense again when he sees Dr. Page. “It was because of you,” he spits, “you scientists--you caused <em> all </em> of this.” he adds, to specify. “If you hadn’t--”</p><p>“We don’t have, time for this,” Michael cuts him off. He takes one glance at the unconscious man; to Gordon, he seems more like a corpse. “There’s nothing to be done.” For the man, or the situation? “Any sign of the mil-itary?”</p><p>“The military?” The guard snorts. “Cavalry’s not gonna find us down here.” He eyes their trio. “There were some scientists who passed by earlier. Two guys and a lady--one of the guys took this fella’s gun. They were gone before I could stop ‘im. You all look like you’re headed to the surface. Good luck with that.”</p><p>“You’re not coming with us?” Dr. Page says. The guard shakes his head. His eyes drift to his companion.</p><p>“If anyone else comes by, they’ll need someone to escort them out.” He gestures to the stairs. “Go. Get to the surface.”</p><p>They don’t need to be told twice. The stairs wind up to a small hallway. Across the way, a pair of elevator doors reveal an empty shaft. There is a ladder, however, that hangs on the very far wall.</p><p>There’s also an office, apparently, to their left. They learn this only when a scientist smashes through its window. He tumbles out in a heap on the floor. He races past them, yelling his head off, and down the stairs. </p><p>A zombie attempts to follow. It only manages to drape itself over the window. It groans, and shuffles, but has no motor control to get up and over. </p><p>Gordon levels the crowbar. The solid <em> crunch </em> of the zombie’s skull makes him sick. But it’s over. He tries not to focus on the glass stuck in its head, or the spurt of yellow-red blood dripping down onto the floor. Gordon unlocks the door through the window.</p><p>Inside the office, he finds a medicine kit. His hopes are dashed when he finds nothing but an old grey Band-Aid. It’s almost a cruel joke. He takes it, anyway. When he comes out, he hands it to Dr. Page. </p><p><em> For your wound, </em>he signs “wound” by pinching his bicep, then turning both hands inwards, each index pointed out. Dr. Page accepts it with thanks. He rolls up his sleeve and applies it to the wound.</p><p>“’Two guys and a lady’,” Dr. Page repeats the guard’s words. “That must be them. I know it is...but why would they have a <em> gun </em>?”</p><p>They find Michael surveying the elevator shaft. His briefcase, his awfully, clunky briefcase, sits on the floor. “We can jump,” he suggests, gesturing to the yellow ladder across the distance. “It’s not far.” He points upwards, and their eyes follow to the motionless elevator car. “We climb up to that--it seems like it’s on the next fl-oor.” </p><p><em> You can’t be serious, </em> Gordon signs with a cheeky smile, <em> you can’t be </em> that <em> mad </em>. Michael rolls his eyes in good nature. “This is a cake walk, compared to that.”</p><p>Dr. Page takes one look at the drop. “Well, the government didn’t send you without  reason,” he concedes. “I’d...prefer it if you two went first.”</p><p>Gordon shrugs, even if he feels queasy towards the idea. Big metal suit, long distance, longer fall--it’s only physics. That’s all it is--physics. </p><p>“Won’t your briefcase make the jump harder, Agent Michael?” Dr. Page says, “How are you going to grab the ladder?” </p><p>“Believe it, or not,” Michael answers, “I’ve found a way.”</p><p>“It just seems like unnecessary baggage.”</p><p>Michael’s expression sours. “Dr. Page, you don’t know what’s, in this briefcase. This is my life’s <em> work </em> --it’s all that I stand for. Doc-uments, <em> important </em> documents, that could get me to some very high and out of, reach places. I am, under no circumstances, <em> letting this briefcase go. </em>”</p><p>“Alright, alright.” Dr. Page raises his hands in surrender. “You don’t have to bite my head off.” </p><p>Michael adjusts his tie with a huff. He’s never seen him so defensive about it before, even when they had first met. He must get that question a lot.</p><p>Gordon backs up to the entrance of the room, right by the stairs. This is it. It’s just physics. He either makes that ladder, or he doesn’t.</p><p>He runs. He barely registers jumping, or the distance--just the <em> CLANG </em> that echoes all around him. His hands grip the ladder tight. He lets out the breath he had been holding. He resists looking down and climbs up. </p><p>The agent puts his briefcase’s handle in his mouth. Gordon notes, and chuckles, at Dr. Page’s look of <em> I-stand-corrected </em>. Michael takes a running start. The ladder trembles as he makes the jump and lands. </p><p>They climb up further, and look expectantly at the lone Dr. Page. </p><p>The scientist takes a deep, deep breath, and goes for it. His jump is too short. Gordon can see it as soon as he takes off. His breath hitches, and he reaches out--Michael is quicker than he is.</p><p>Michael grabs Dr. Page’s arm before he falls. He swings straight into the ladder. The scientist’s yelp echoes up and down the elevator shaft. Gordon winces.</p><p>“<em> Fuck! </em>” he cries, hand flying to his side. With enough grappling, he hoists himself onto the ladder. “T-Thank you.” </p><p>The agent doesn’t, and can’t, reply. They begin their ascent. It’s slow going. Every move has Dr. Page cringing in pain. Gordon doesn’t doubt he’s bruised. They sidle along small ledges, forming a chain with their arms, up more ladders, until they’re just one jump away from the top of the elevator car. It trembles as they hop on. With the crowbar, Gordon bashes in the top vent. </p><p>He jumps in. Michael and Dr. Page follow. The latter winces, and grabs the elevator’s handrail for support.</p><p>A gun clicks. All three of them freeze in place.</p><p>A thin, wiry man, in the same age group as Dr. Page, holds them at gunpoint. His grip is so tight his bony knuckles are stretched white. One other man and a woman group together behind him. They’re holding onto one another.</p><p>The click of the gun brings his attention away from them, and to the man holding it. </p><p>“<em> Don’t move. </em>”</p><p>“Anton,” Dr. Page says, “let’s be reasonable about this.” </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>[SUBJECTS: GORDON AND MICHAEL]<br/>[STATUS: In transit]</p><p>[SUBJECT: DR. HARRIS PAGE]<br/>[STATUS: Under observation; please standby.]</p><p>[FIVE SUBJECTS PENDING]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a very, very long time no see! if you'll hop on over to this fic's sideblog (security-chief-calhoun) i linked a playlist to commemorate the fact that this is our tenth chapter! yeah, it doesn't seem like a huge deal to you avid long fic readers, but it is to me! this is the longest fic i have ever written so far, and i wanted to thank you all for reading :]</p><p>next week, we'll find that an elevator is the best place to make friends.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>some things<br/>- this is based off of the fact that Michael Shapiro voices both characters. I thought it'd be interesting if we swapped Gman and Barney for once, instead of Gman and Gordon (tho I love that AU to bits, too!)<br/>- these characters have designs which you can see over on the sideblog! it also has a link to the playlist i made for this au<br/>- will be updated every Saturday, if I can, but I do have school coming up so it might take a little while. I have four chapters ready to go for posting.<br/>- enjoy the rest! i have quite a lot planned for this au &gt;:3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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